Lost and Found
by Clowns or Midgets
Summary: Sam was stolen from his bed when he was four years old. Dean and John have spent the intervening eighteen years searching for his killer, saving other lives along the way. Until one day, in a bar in Palo Alto, California, John sees a familiar face. Is it possible that Sam's alive after all?
1. Prologue

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for saddling up on another story for me. You're the best beta around. Thank you Gredelina1 for everything you do for me and the story. Thank you also to the people of Facebook's Fanfiction Writer's Critique Group for all your help with the prologue.  
**

* * *

 _ **Prologue**_

 _ **1843 – London, England.**_

The blades pierced Richard's skin, drawing rivulets of blood, and he cried out weakly, tears slipping from his reddened eyes.

"You see the scarificator makes the cuts most satisfactorily," the doctor said as he lined up the machine again a little further down the child's arm. "The cuts are only superficial, but they allow the weakened blood to flow out most effectively. It lessens the risk of excess draining, letting out the good blood with the bad."

Charlotte whimpered and covered her mouth with her handkerchief. James moved to stand beside her and laid a hand on her arm in a gesture of comfort. The doctor looked up from his task and said, "Perhaps you would allow me to bleed you as well, Lady Hydeker. It might help balance your own humors."

"There is no need for that," James said firmly. His wife wasn't having vapors; she was dealing with the strain of seeing her son being slowly drained by the consumption. He had tried to keep her out of the room, but she was a dedicated mother and had resisted all his efforts.

The doctor nodded, his mustache bristling as he blew out a breath, and pressed down on the scarificator again. Richard didn't cry out this time. He seemed too exhausted. He merely flinched.

James stared down at the child from his place beside the bed and felt a wave of inadequacy. Had he dedicated his long years to researching medicine instead of business, he could perhaps have found some solution to their situation. Though in his heart he knew there was nothing he could do for his adopted son. He had always been sickly—a weakness surely inherited from his deceased father—and in his almost six years, he had never known a day of true vitality.

He was an engaging child though, and James cared for him very much, more than was usual among his peers. He could see the potential the child held within his mind, even through his youth. His life was largely spent indoors due to his ill health, and he filled his days with music. He was already proficient with the piano and hidden in James' study was the violin he had bought for his sixth birthday. He had seen that Richard was no ordinary child the day he met him two years ago, begged by Charlotte to audience him even though it was not usually the done thing until after the wedding for a child so young.

Richard was as dear to James as anyone had ever been.

The doctor lifted the scarificator and James saw the rows of neat cuts, still weeping trickles of blood.

"They can be bandaged now," the doctor instructed the maid who was serving as his assistant in Richard's care. She bobbed a curtsey, quickly gathered the required rolls of cloth, and set to work bandaging the wounds on Richard's arm.

The doctor came to James and held out his hand. James obliged the handshake and said, "When can we expect you again?"

"I will return this evening," he answered. "While I am gone you should have someone stay with him. If the coughing becomes a problem again, raise his bed, and if the fever should return, wrap him in red flannel." He looked disapprovingly at Charlotte crying silently into her handkerchief. "You should rest, Lady Hydeker. You have your own health to care for."

Swinging his black bag at his side, he strode from the room.

James watched the maid wrapping Richard's arms with clean cloths and a wave of sadness washed over him. The boy's chestnut hair was plastered to his temple with the sweat that had formed in the night with the fever and his uniquely colored eyes, amber and emerald combined, were bloodshot. He began to cough again, and disregarding propriety, James sat down and lifted the child against his chest. Charlotte sat on the other side of the bed as the maid, having finished her task, melted back into the shadows. Charlotte took both of Richard's hands into her own and rubbed at them to warm them as James patted his back.

It didn't help this time, though. The coughing fit wracked Richard's tiny frame, his chest rising and falling with each weak, rasping breath.

James' heart began to race with fear.

"Fetch back the doctor!" he ordered the maid who scurried from the room.

"Nice deep breaths, son," James said, recognizing as he did that it was the first time he had addressed the child as son.

Richard did not, could not, obey though. His breaths became more labored and took on a gurgling quality that scared James.

"His lips, James!" Charlotte said shrilly. "They're blue!"

Though coughs still wracked Richard, they seemed to be without his own impetus. He was lying back weakly against James, as if he didn't have the strength to hold himself upright.

The doctor came blustering back into the room then, saying, "Well, what do we have here now?"

He didn't move to assist though. He looked at the child in James' arms and said, "I see."

"What do you see?" Charlotte asked, her voice pitched high with worry. "Do something!"

"I am sorry, Lady Hydeker, but there is nothing to be done," he said apologetically.

Richard's coughs had tapered away, and at first James thought that was good, he was reviving, but the breaths came weak and very shallow, barely there, and he realized what was happening. Richard was waning.

Disregarding the doctor's presence, he held Richard close and began to rock him gently back and forth. Charlotte was crying loudly, making so much noise that James couldn't hear Richard's breaths anymore. He felt it though when they stopped, and he knew Richard was gone, and yet he didn't stop rocking him. The tears that burned his eyes fell, streaking a hot path down his cheeks, as he held the beloved boy in his arms and rocked him back and forth.

* * *

 _ **1987 - Fort Douglas, Wisconsin.**_

James looked down at the sleeping child and shock rocked through him. His hair was the exact same shade of brown, and it curled ever so slightly, just as it had before, and the face… the face was identical in every detail.

"Richard," he breathed.

With his shock the urge to feed seeped out of him and the form of James Hydeker returned, the sunken eyes and pale skin of his Shtriga self disappeared and he appeared human again.

The child stirred and James waited with bated breath to see the eyes, knowing even before he did that they would be the same unique color they had been all those years ago. They were.

The child blinked up at him for a moment, confusion becoming fear. "Dean?" he called querulously.

"It's okay, Richard," James said. "You're going to be okay."

"My name's Sam," the child said.

James smiled. What was a changed name when set against the miracle that was Richard's return.

"Well, Sam, I'm going to help you," he said.

"Where's Dean?"

James glanced through the bedroom door to the empty room beyond. There was no one there but him and the miraculous child. He was all alone.

"Dean doesn't matter now," he said, pushing back the bedspread and scooping him into his arms. "I'm going to take care of you."

"No!" the child cried. "Dean! Help me! Dean!"

James squeezed them out of the window, hearing the motel door fly open and a young voice calling after them. "Sam! No! Sam!"

James felt the child shaking in his arms as he ran with him away from the motel.

"It's okay, Sam," he soothed. "You will be okay. You're never going to be left alone again. I will save you."

* * *

 **So… Here we go. My 34th Supernatural story. I know this prologue is different from what you've come to expect from me or the show. Stick with me though, as the next chapter takes us back into more familiar territory.**

 **Until next time...**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for powering through this chapter for me, and Gredelina1 for being my partner in fic crime. Thank you also to everyone that read, reviewed, alerted and added the story to your favorites. I had a great time watching emails come in and I was thrilled to see so many new names with old friends.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter One**_

 _ **2005 – Palo Alto**_

Sam shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a peg by the apartment door. He could hear Jessica singing along to the radio in the kitchen, and he smiled to himself at the evidence of her happiness. He walked along the hall on light feet and stood by the door for a moment, watching her hips sway to the music as she washed dishes at the sink. On the counter was the debris of her baking—cookies he guessed from the smells in the air.

He crept up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She shrieked with surprise and started in his hold, turning quickly with a scowl on her face.

"Sam!" she scolded. "You scared me, you ass."

"I'm sorry," Sam said, ducking his head to kiss her on the lips. He felt her smile against him and knew he was forgiven, though when he leaned back she morphed her features into a scowl again.

"Sorry is not going to cut it, mister."

Sam tried to look repentant. "What do I have to do to make it up to you?"

She turned her back and fumbled for something in the sink. Spinning quickly she smeared dish soap suds over his face and mouth.

"Ugh," Sam said, wiping at his lips and sputtering to clear the suds that he'd breathed in.

Jessica laughed. "That'll teach you."

Sam wiped at the subs on his face with a cloth and grinned at her. "It will. Am I forgiven?"

She pretended to consider for a moment. "I guess I could be persuaded to forgive you, if you promise to never do it again and vow servitude to me from now on."

"How about the servitude without the promise?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather be my slave than miss the opportunity to scare the crap out of me again?"

"Yes. Servitude to you sounds like fun. I can think of all kinds of ways to worship you."

"You can, can you?"

Sam grinned and whispered in her ear, "All _kinds_ of ways."

Jessica wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. "Okay, servitude it is. And my first command to you is that you stay home this afternoon and meet this guy that I've got coming over."

"A guy, huh?" he teased.

"A reporter actually."

Sam pulled back to look at her. "What's going on, Jess?"

"It's about the attacks," she said. "I heard there were reporters in town, so I got hold of one of them and arranged for him to come by. I thought it might help."

"Yes!" Sam said excitedly.

"Don't get your hopes up, baby. It might not make a difference to anything."

"But it might," Sam replied. "Maybe the pressure of press interest will make them look at the cases again."

The oven beeped then and she pulled away from Sam. "My cookies!" Grabbing a pot-holder from the hook beside the stove, she pulled open the door and leaned back as steam billowed out. She reached in for her tray of cookies and set the tray down on a cooling rack and switched off the stove before turning back to Sam who was smiling fondly at her.

He loved to watch Jessica bake. He supposed it was one of those things he'd missed out on growing up—watching his mom bake—since she'd died before he could remember, and so he appreciated the domesticity of it now. He didn't think he'd ever had a cookie that wasn't prepackaged until he met Jessica. His father definitely wasn't the sort to bake with him. Study help was more his forte. Still, Sam wasn't complaining. It was thanks to his father's encouragement and support that he had managed to get into Stanford.

"What's got you smiling?" she asked.

"I love you," Sam said simply.

She beamed at him. "Who wouldn't? Now, get your butt into the living room and clean up your crap before he gets here."

"Yes, Ma'am," Sam said, giving her a lazy salute. He turned and hurried away before she could throw something at him.

* * *

An hour later, after Sam had tidied the lounge to Jessica's exacting standards, there was a knock on the door. Jessica rushed to answer it, and Sam stood to greet their guest. He heard Jessica chatting animatedly as they came along the hall and then they appeared in the doorway.

The man was younger than Sam expected, probably only a few years older than Sam himself, and he was dressed casually in jeans and a plaid shirt over a t-shirt.

Jessica gestured to Sam and said, "This is my boyfriend, Sam. Sam, this is Dean Aframian."

Dean started slightly at Jessica's introduction, and a flicker of something that could be pain crept across his face. He quickly schooled it into a smile though and held out a hand to Sam.

Sam shook it and said, "Sam Hydeker. Good to meet you."

"Would you like a coffee, Dean?" Jessica asked.

"I'd love one," he answered.

Jessica beamed and left Sam and Dean alone. Dean looked around the room, taking in the brightly colored pillows and throws, and said, "Nice place you got here."

"Thanks," Sam said. "It's all down to Jess. Before she moved in, I ate off packing crates and sat on a beanbag chair.

Dean laughed. "I know what you mean. I'm not a homemaker either.

Jessica came back into the room with a tray bearing coffee and a plate of cookies. She set the tray down on the coffee table and said, "Shall we sit?"

Dean took the lone armchair while Jessica and Sam took seats on the couch, sitting close with their hands linked.

Dean took a notebook from his pocket and said, "Hope you don't mind if I jump right in."

"Not at all," Sam said. "Ask whatever you need."

"I understand you witnessed one of the animal attacks," he said.

"Animal!" Sam scoffed.

"You don't think so?"

"I know it wasn't," Sam said. "That was no animal."

"Can you tell me about it?"

Sam took a breath and said, "I was walking to the library to meet Jess after her study group. It was late, around ten. I was cutting through Arboretum Grove and I heard something in the trees. It's not unknown for kids to meet there to make-out, so I didn't really pay attention at first, but then I heard a woman scream, so I followed the sound."

"You went towards the sound of screaming?" Dean asked. "Wouldn't it have made more sense to call the cops?"

"Maybe it would have," Sam said. "But who knows what could have happened to that woman before they got there. I followed the sound, and that's when I heard the voice. It was real low, a man's, like a growl, and it sounded threatening."

"Did you _see_ anything?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. "I was running, but whoever it was, they were faster. When I got there, the woman and man were gone."

Dean scribbled a note on his pad and turned the page. "And you're sure it wasn't an animal's growl you heard?"

"I'm certain," Sam said.

"You told this cops this?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam said, a hint of anger in his tone now as he remembered the cops' mocking and inaction. "They don't believe me. They think I overheard some lover's tryst and got confused. But the day after it happened, they found a woman's body at the stadium, and that's only a mile away."

"And that was…"—he checked a page of his book—"Amanda Prior?"

Sam nodded stiffly. The name of the woman he thought he should have saved brought a lump to his throat. Perhaps if he hadn't hesitated, if he'd gone to the sound straight away, he could have done something to help—he might have been able save her life.

Dean leaned forward in his seat. "You think it was a human killing?"

"It definitely wasn't an animal."

"There's all kinds of animals out there," Dean muttered.

"I know," Sam said seriously. "I'm pre-law. I've seen evidence of all kinds of monsters in the world. You never expect it on your doorstep though."

"No, I guess you don't," Dean said thoughtfully. He tucked his notepad back into his pocket and picked up his coffee. Taking a sip he smiled and said, "This is great coffee."

"Have a cookie," Jessica encouraged.

Dean took a bite of one and sighed appreciatively. "Damn, these are good."

"It's all Jess," Sam said proudly. "Like I say, she's the homemaker here."

"Yeah, and you better appreciate it," she said, elbowing him. "I'll not have time when I am a famous lawyer."

"I do," Sam said seriously. He felt eyes on him and he glanced at Dean to see him watching them with an amused if little wistful expression.

"I should get going," Dean said taking a final sip of his coffee and setting it down on the table. "I need to meet with my partner to exchange information."

"Okay," Sam said. "Hey, if I give you my number, will you let me know if you find anything out?"

"Sure," Dean said easily.

Sam stood and grabbed the notepad beside the phone. He jotted down his number and handed it to Dean who tucked it in his pocket. Dean handed him a business card in return.

"Hold on!" Jessica said quickly. "Let me just grab something." She darted out of the room and came back a moment later with a baggie. She scooped the remaining cookies from the plate into the bag and held it out to Dean. "For you and your partner."

Dean looked surprised but pleased. "Thank you. That's really nice of you."

"You're welcome," she said.

Dean turned to Sam and held out a hand again. "It was good to meet you, Sam."

Sam smiled widely. "You too."

"You take care now," he said, and then walked to the door, Jessica following.

When she came back, she smiled at Sam. "That went well."

"It did," Sam agreed. "He was a good guy."

Jessica raised an eyebrow. "You can tell from that conversation."

Sam considered, realizing how strange it seemed, but then he nodded. "Yeah. I can."

Jessica shrugged and grinned at him. "Now… about that servitude…"

"Yeah?" Sam asked interestedly, a smile curving his lips.

She laughed. "Yeah, stud. I could use a study partner."

* * *

As Dean walked back to the car, he heard laughter coming through the open window of the apartment he'd visited, and he smiled at the sound. They seemed a good couple, happy. Sam especially seemed like a good guy. He'd tried to help the third victim, Amanda, even though he'd had no idea what he was walking into, and it was obvious that he was beating himself up about being too late. Dean, who saw everyone as monsters, hunters and civilians, thought Sam had the right mindset to be a hunter.

When Jessica had introduced him, Dean had felt the pang of sadness he always felt when presented with someone that shared his lost brother's name. It wasn't like it was an uncommon name, and it had happened so many times before that he'd lost count, but repetition didn't inure him to the pain. It was the name that had triggered the familiarity he'd felt when looking at Sam, too. It was as if he'd known Sam in a past life. It wasn't him though. It was never him. It _could_ never be him. Sam was gone.

Sadness sweeping through him, Dean yanked open the Impala's side door, treating her with less care that he usually showed, and threw himself in behind the wheel. He sat for a moment with his hands draped over the steering wheel and sighed. He needed to get himself together before he got back to the motel and saw his father. He took a few deep breaths and shoved down what he was feeling so he could get on with what he had to do. Only when he was satisfied he was in control again did he start the engine and pull away from the sidewalk.

Their motel, the E-Z-Nites, was located a few miles away, and Dean was soon pulling up outside their small double room and cutting the engine. He grabbed the cookies Jessica had given him and climbed out.

He knew John would have heard him arrive, but the curtain didn't twitch which meant he was deep into something. Dean thought he knew what it would be. His suspicions were confirmed when he opened the door and saw John standing at the rear wall staring at a vast map of the USA with colored ink dabs dotted across it. This map was old and familiar now, as they had been carrying it around the country with them for eighteen years. Where other people had family photos on the walls, Dean and John had the map. It was the crux of their search for Sam's killer. Every lead and clue was marked on the creased and worn paper.

"Anything?" Dean asked.

John shook his head without turning.

Dean sighed. It wasn't like he'd really been expecting anything, and if there had been even a flicker of news, John would have called him, but it seemed his heart always hoped.

"How did you get on with the cops?" Dean asked.

"Huh?"

"The cops, Dad. You went to talk to them…" He trailed off as he understood. "You didn't go to see them."

"I've got time," John said. "It's early still."

Dean checked his watch. "It's past six."

John turned finally and looked at Dean, his dark eyes confused and tired. "It is?"

Dean nodded sadly. "Yeah, Dad."

There was a time in which John's eyes had burned with life at all hours, when John was a virile man that had seemed strong enough to carry the world on his shoulders. That was before though, before the search, before the map became their focus, before Sam died.

Now John was a shadow of who he had been, sustained only by his thirst for revenge against the creatures that had stolen his wife and son.

"I'm sorry," he said, rubbing a hand over his thickly stubbled jaw. "I'll go tomorrow, okay?"

"Sure," Dean said, making an effort to hide his disappointment. It wasn't John's fault he had lost track of time, caught up in his thoughts. It happened to Dean, too. Even if it didn't, he was in no position to blame John for anything—not after what he had done all those years ago.

"So, I met with a couple students today," he said, hoping to engage his father in their current hunt. "One of them was close when the third victim was attacked."

John looked interested. "Did they see anything?"

"No. He heard enough to make me think we're on the right track though. He said there was a man there, and he threatened the woman somehow. He is sure he heard a man's voice though, not an animal."

John moved to the table where all the notes and pictures they'd gathered for their current hunt were spread out. He rifled through the pictures and pulled out the one they'd pulled from the online news page of Amanda Prior. He tapped it with his index finger and said, "Vampires."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "I think it's got to be."

The deaths were being reported as animal attacks because the throats were mangled, but John and Dean believed it was because the vampires were covering the bites marks. In the police and ME's reports Ash had hacked into for them, it said there was not enough blood found at the scenes to account for the amount the bodies had lost in the attack.

"Okay," John said tiredly. "You ask around tomorrow about any newcomers to the area. See if you can dig any suspects up. I'll go by the PD and do the same."

"Okay. No problem. I'll check in with the kids I spoke to today, too. They seemed cool."

John nodded distractedly. "Okay."

"Have you eaten anything?" Dean asked, glancing around the room for signs of a meal.

"No, I was waiting for you."

That was unlikely, Dean knew. John had more likely gotten lost in his thoughts and forgotten to eat again. Dean was going to have to take better care of him.

He raised the bag of cookies in his hand and said, "Today's witness' girlfriend gave us cookies. Have one of them while I clean up then we'll go out to get something."

"She gave you cookies?" John asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah," Dean said with a laugh. "Go figure."

He handed his father the bag and made his way into the bathroom, listening for the rustle that would tell his father had obeyed.

He remembered the days when John would have been on his ass to make sure he and Sam ate while he was gone. That hadn't happened in the longest time though. John remembering food and sleep and everyday care had all been lost with Sam. Now… now he was different.

* * *

"Eight ball, corner pocket," Dean said smugly.

"You cannot make that shot," the guy Dean was playing said scathingly.

Dean shrugged and bent over the table, lining up his cue and taking a couple practice passes. He grinned as he took the shot and the ball bounced from the cushion and rolled smoothly into the pocket.

Dean straightened with a grin on his face. "How about that?" he said. "Turns out I can.

He reached for the bills on the side of the table but the man slapped his hand down on them. "You cheated!" he accused.

"Being a better player isn't cheating," Dean said.

"And how come you were loaded a few minutes ago and now you're sober."

"Good metabolism for alcohol?" Dean suggested.

"You hustled me."

"You let yourself be hustled," Dean said as he brushed aside the man's hand, picked up his winnings and turned away.

He felt the disturbance of air as the man took a swing just in time to move out of range.

"What's going on, Dean?" John asked, materializing at his side.

"Nothing," Dean answered. "Just talking."

John stepped into the uncomfortably close in the space of Dean's would-be attacker and growled, "Touch my son and I will make sure it's the last thing you ever do."

The man stepped back and said with clearly false bravado, "Sure you will."

Dean caught John's shoulder and held him. "It's okay, Dad. We're done here. Right?"

"Sure we are," the man leered then strutted away, fists swinging at his sides.

"Are you okay?" John asked Dean intensely.

"I'm fine," Dean said easily, accustomed to John's reaction after years of it. Dean could fail to eat for days and John might not notice, but faced with an attack on his son, he was there in an instant. He was always attentive to danger even if other needs went unnoticed.

"Let's get another drink," John suggested.

Dean could smell the whiskey on his father's breath and knew, since he'd left him with a beer when he went to play pool, John had started on the chasers in his absence. He nodded though and followed John to the bar.

He was trying to gain the attention of the bartender who was chatting with a rowdy group of youngsters Dean guessed were from the college, when there was a wave of cooler air as the door opened and a couple walked in. Dean raised a hand automatically in greeting as he recognized Sam and Jessica.

John followed his gaze and the color drained from his face.

"Dad?" Dean said, concerned. "What's wrong?"

John blinked twice as though trying to clear his vision and said in an awed tone, "Sammy?"

* * *

 **So… What do you think so far? This story is a departure from my norm, as it's not as hunt focused as they usually are, and characters we know and love from canon are changed by circumstance here. It's been a tough but enjoyable write, and I'm really hoping you enjoy it.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	3. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the awesome beta job and Gredelina1 for all your help and support for me and the story.**

 **I have been blown away by the response to the story so far. I am so grateful to you all for reading.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Two**_

" _Sammy?"_

Dean followed John's gaze and saw that he was looking at Sam and Jessica. They were being hailed by the group at the other end of the bar now; Sam's back was being slapped and Jessica was greeting her friends with hugs. They didn't seem to have noticed John's rapt attention, but Dean was sure it was only a matter of time until they did notice, and he knew from experience how embarrassing that would be.

"No, Dad," he said firmly. "It's not him."

John didn't even blink in reaction. He was fixated completely on Sam. His eyes were unusually bright and his eyebrows high on his face. He looked like a man seeing the most amazing treasure. It was heartbreaking in its hope and even more so in its familiarity. Dean had seen this before and he knew what came after.

"Dad!" he said harshly. "Look at me!" When the man failed to react again, Dean grabbed his shoulders and bodily turned him away from Sam. "It is not Sammy."

John frowned and said in a vague voice, "What?"

"His name is Sam Hydeker. He is not our Sam," Dean said.

"How do you know?"

"Because I met him today. He's the witness I interviewed. He has a girlfriend, his own family, his own life. I saw pictures."

There was a bigger, more crushing reason for him knowing, but John didn't need to hear it in that place. Though he knew it in his heart, John was lost in hope at the moment and didn't need to be reminded of the truth of Sam's loss—his death.

"Listen to me," Dean said. "He's not our Sam. He's someone else's."

"How can you be sure?"

"I know it," Dean said. He released John's shoulders and stared into his eyes. "We can't talk to him, Dad. We need to keep our cover for the hunt. People are relying on us. Come with me. We'll go back to the motel and have a drink. Okay?"

John cast Sam a look of longing and then nodded slowly. "Okay, Son. I'll come."

Dean sighed with relief. Sometimes he couldn't stop John and that always ended in embarrassment and greater heartache later for them both.

Sam and Jessica had been swallowed into the throng of friends, so Dean was able to lead John out of the bar with a light grip on his jacket sleeve without drawing their attention. They walked out into the fresh air of the night. As the door closed behind him again, John cast it a troubled look.

Dean released John's sleeve and started along the sidewalk, hoping he would follow; he didn't want to make an issue of it now that they were out of sight and he was confident John wouldn't go back into the bar. After a beat of hesitation, John fell into step beside him, his shoulders hunching inside his leather jacket. To an outsider it would look like he was merely combating the chill in the air, but Dean recognized it for what it was—a sign that the man was trying to physically hold himself together.

They had passed a liquor store on the way to the bar, and Dean directed them there now. There was a bell above the door that tinkled and a middle-aged man at the register smiled welcomingly at them. "Good evening, gentlemen. How can I help you?"

"What are you in the mood for?" Dean asked his father.

John looked around the shelves with unfocussed eyes, and Dean knew his attention was still in that bar.

"We'll take one of these," Dean said, grabbing a bottle of Jack Daniels from a shelf and carrying it to the counter.

The man rung up the sale and Dean handed him one of the bills he'd won playing pool and took the paper wrapped bottle. He thanked the man and led John back out of the shop.

They walked in silence back to the motel, and when Dean opened the door, John walked in ahead of him and fell onto the chair at the table without taking off his jacket. Dean shrugged off his own and threw it onto his bed, then grabbed the mugs from the small kitchenette and carried them over to the table. He poured a generous measure of whiskey into each and pushed one into John's hand.

"Drink up, Dad."

John obeyed by taking a deep gulp and holding out his mug for more. Dean refilled it and then took a small sip of his own. He needed the jolt the liquor gave him but he couldn't get drunk if he was going to help his father. He sat down on the second chair and looked at his father, taking in the wrecked expression and slight tremor in his hands.

"I really thought it was him," John said after a long time of silence.

Dean was relieved that John was accepting the truth already. It was often hard to persuade him that he hadn't actually seen Sam, and those times were much harder for John to recover from.

"I know you did," he replied.

John wasn't alone in seeing Sam in places he wasn't. When Dean was young, he had seen his little brother's face in playgrounds, in diners and schools, in the streets and motel parking lots. And he would feel the same way John was feeling now: that swoop in the stomach as you first saw him, so sure it was really Sam, and then the absolute devastation of realizing you were wrong, that it was never going to be him, because he was dead and had been for a long time.

It was easier for Dean in some ways now, as he didn't see him anymore, because he had lost his face. There were photographs of him, but that's what Sam was to him now—a face captured on glossy paper. He wasn't alive in Dean's mind the way he was John's. Dean wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He didn't see Sam in other people's faces, but he couldn't see him in his mind either. He still held his brother close to his heart, but he wasn't alive there the way he was for John.

Dean drew a shaky breath. "But it wasn't Sam." It hurt his heart to say it, just as he knew it hurt John to hear it.

"No," John said mournfully. He drew a deep breath. "I know, I always do, but when I see him… I forget."

"You're not really seeing him though," Dean said gently, hating that he had to say it but knowing he needed to make sure John was sure of the truth. Once before he'd thought he'd gotten through to him only to find John approaching the kid, who was only a teenager, and telling him how much he'd missed him. Dean didn't know what was worse: seeing the terrified kid's face or John's devastation after. It had taken a long time for John to recover from that.

"I _know_ ," John said a little angrily. "You don't understand though."

Dean felt his own anger coming to the surface. When he got like this, John seemed to forget that he wasn't the only one that had lost something with Sam. John had lost his son, and Dean couldn't imagine how that felt, but he knew how it felt to lose a brother and that was worse than anything. It was even worse than losing his mother, because Mary's death hadn't been his fault.

He tamped down his anger though and made his expression neutral, because he knew he had no right to be angry at his father, not when it was his fault Sam was gone. "I'm sorry," he said, apologizing both for upsetting his father and for what he had done all those years ago.

"It's okay," John said, waving a hand at him, brushing away his words just as Dean knew he would. It was his response to any apology Dean made and had been for many years, ever since Dean had apologized for the time it had truly mattered.

* * *

 _ **1987 — Fort Douglas – Wisconsin**_

 _Dean needed some space. He needed to be away from Sammy for just a little while. Sammy needed space from him, too, he was sure. They were both going crazy trapped in that motel room. Sammy was whining about going to the park across the street. He would sit at the window and watch the other kids playing, and Dean hated it. It made him mad that he couldn't give Sammy what he wanted. Sammy didn't understand though. He was too young to understand that people couldn't see them on their own too much and that it wasn't safe in the world without their dad to take care of them. Sammy didn't know about the monsters._

 _But Dean was going nuts in that room and Sammy was finally asleep, so he thought it was okay to play the video game in the lobby for just a little while. He had a pocket full of quarters and they had Street Fighter II._

 _He spent about an hour playing, and was just about to take the high score when the motel manager interrupted him. "Kid, we're closing up."_

 _Disappointed, Dean nodded and walked out of the office and along the block to their room. He was just turning the key in the door when he heard the cry that froze his heart. "Dean! Help me! Dean!"_

 _The key snagged in the lock and he rattled it, trying desperately to turn it. When it did, he thrust open the door and raced through the living area to the bedroom where he saw Sammy's empty bed. "Sammy! No! Sammy!" he cried._

 _His mind reeling, he ripped back the bedclothes, and checked under the bed for a sign of his brother, thinking maybe he'd gotten scared of something and hid. He ran into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain, but Sammy wasn't there either._

" _Sammy!" he yelled. "Sammy!"_

 _There was no response. Apart from the sound of Dean's heart racing everything was silent._

 _Dean's hands came up to his hair and he yanked on the strands. Tears welled in his eyes, and though he tried to force them back through sheer willpower, they slipped down his cheeks, burning hot._

" _Dad!" he cried. "I need you, Dad."_

 _That was the moment the door opened and John Winchester rushed inside. "Dean, what's wrong?" he asked intensely, walking past him without waiting for an answer and into the bedroom. His eyes roved the room and then he turned on Dean. "Where's Sammy?"_

" _I'm sorry, Dad," Dean croaked. "I didn't mean to."_

" _Where's your brother, Dean?"_

" _I'm sorry," Dean said again, distress making his legs weak._

" _Forget sorry, tell me where he is!" John demanded._

 _Fresh tears slipping down his cheeks, Dean spoke in a whisper. "I think something took him."_

* * *

Dean knew when he gave John the first drink that he would keep going until he couldn't hold the mug anymore, and he knew how that would end, but he also knew it was the best thing to do. Long years of practice had taught him that it was easier to sedate John when he was like this, and alcohol was the only sedative he'd accept.

When John reached the point of slopping the whiskey down his chin when he tried to drink, Dean went to John's bed and pulled back the covers and folded them over. "Come on, Dad. You need to sleep," he said.

John tried to get to his feet but he staggered sideways. Dean got an arm under him and held him while his father steadied himself. When he was upright, albeit leaning heavily against Dean, they staggered across the room to the beds. When they reached them, John collapsed onto his own and rolled over, facing away from Dean. Thankfully, he had shed his jacket earlier, but Dean still had to struggle to pull off his boots. John protested weakly but didn't make a move to help. Dean thought he probably didn't even realize what he was doing.

He set the boots down at the end of the bed, grabbed the trashcan and placed it on the floor beside John and then set about removing the signs of what had happened by rinsing the mugs in the small sink and stashing the remains of the whiskey in his duffel.

He toed off his own boots and flopped down on his bed. He wouldn't sleep well, he was sure, but he needed to get as much rest as he could to be able to handle what he was worried would come the next day. Sometimes it was okay, John snapped out of it quickly, other times it took a while and Dean had to get help. As he closed his eyes and began to drift, he hoped for the former.

It was the latter.

It felt like he had barely closed his eyes before they snapped open again at the sound of his father's voice calling out, "Sammy!"

He sat up and rubbed a hand over his face tiredly, then checked his watch; it had been less than an hour. He looked over at the other bed and saw, as he had expected, that John's face was sheened with sweat and crumpled with sadness. Even as Dean watched, John turned and buried his face in the pillow, crying out his son's name.

He hesitated before climbing out of bed and making his way around to the second bed. He laid a hand on his father's shoulder and shook it roughly. "Wake up, Dad!" he ordered.

John groaned as if in pain but he didn't wake up, and Dean shook him again.

"Mary, I'm sorry! Sammy!" he cried.

"Please, Dad," Dean begged. "Please wake up."

"Sammy!"

Dean couldn't bear to hear his brother's name in that desperate, broken voice anymore. He drew back a fist and punched John's shoulder hard, making his eye snap open and rove the room. Dean hoped that waking would be enough to break the nightmare's hold, but with John's first waking word he knew it wasn't. "Sammy?"

His eyes still unfocused and unaware, he rushed across the room and made for the window. He tried to push it open, but he struggled with the latch. Knowing his part from many repetitions, Dean unlatched it for him and John threw it open.

"Sammy!" John called. His hands ran over the windowsill, searching for the handprint of rotted wood that would not be there, the handprint that had not been there in any motel they'd stayed in since that night eighteen years ago, no matter how many times he searched for it. As John's hands roved the sill, his eyes gradually came back into focus. "Sammy?" his tone was puzzled now, and thankfully less distressed than it had been before.

"Dad, look at me," Dean said firmly.

John turned his eyes to him and Dean saw reason return to them. He pulled his hands back into the room and Dean closed the window. He watched as John staggered over to the bed and sat on the end, putting his head in his hands.

"You're okay," Dean said reassuringly. "It was just a dream."

"Nightmare," John stated.

"Yeah. I'm sorry, Dad."

John waved away his words once again. "Sammy's gone."

He was speaking to himself, but Dean knew it was his chance to break into John's cycle of behavior. "He is. Sammy's been gone a long time. He's not here."

"He's dead," John said desolately.

"Yes," Dean said, wiping a hand over his cheeks, smearing the wetness there. "The Shtriga took him…"

"And it would never have let him live," John finished for him.

Dean nodded.

"But I saw him," John said, a hint of hope in his tone.

"No, Dad, you saw someone else's Sam. He wasn't ours."

John glared down at his clasped hands and drew in a shaky breath. "He's gone."

Dean knew he was speaking to himself now, so he didn't offer up a reply.

"I need a drink," he said.

"You've had…" Dean started, but at John's glare he said, "I'll get you one."

He went to his duffel and took out the remains of the bottle he'd bought. He handed it to John who uncapped it and drank straight from the neck.

"I need some air," Dean said. "I'll be right back, okay?"

John nodded without looking at him. Dean smiled sadly as he snuck his cell out of his jacket pocket and slipped from the room. When he was outside, he leaned against the stucco wall of their unit and dialed a familiar number. It connected quickly and Jim Murphy's voice answered, alert despite the late hour. "Dean. Is everything okay?"

"No," Dean answered miserably. "I need help. Dad's not well."

He heard a sad sigh crackle over the line and then Jim said, "I am on my way."

* * *

Dean went to the airport the next afternoon, leaving his father to nurse his hangover and attempt to track down possible locations of the vampire nest. He waited under the sign declaring a welcome to California. He had arrived a little early, eager to be out of the motel, but didn't bother to kill time getting coffee or food. He just watched Jim's flight number slowly rising up the arrivals board until it was at the top stating baggage claim.

He was lost in thought of all that had passed during the night when he heard someone clear his throat in front of him. He jerked out of his own head and saw Pastor Jim standing opposite him, a small bag in his hand.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean felt a wave of childish relief at the sight of his old friend. He was there to take care of John now, too. The onus wasn't all on Dean to make everything right again—or as right as it could be under the circumstances.

"Hey, Jim," he said. "You ready to go?"

"That depends," Jim said. "Do you want to tell me about it here or on the road?"

"The road," he said. "We should probably get back to Dad."

"Is he very bad?" Jim asked, concern in his kind brown eyes.

"He's been worse before," Dean said honestly.

Jim nodded solemnly. "We better get to him."

Dean led him out of the airport to the parking garage where he'd left the Impala. Jim put his bag on the backseat and settled in the front. Dean got in behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition, bringing the engine to life. The familiar rumble soothed his ragged nerves ever so slightly.

They were out of the lot and on the highway before Jim asked, "What happened?"

Dean drew a deep breath and said, "He thought he saw Sammy again."

Jim sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, Dean." He knew what that kind of trigger meant and what would follow.

"Yeah. It's some poor kid I interviewed about this new hunt." He smiled grimly. "His name actually _is_ Sam, and he's a student at the university. Good kid. He came into the bar we were in last night, and when Dad caught sight of him… Well, you can guess how it went."

"Did John speak to him?"

"No, thank God. I managed to get him out of there without the kid noticing, but after... Dad had a real rough night. He was already shaky, his mind not all the way on the job we're supposed to be doing, but now he's a wreck. I can't have him here when I'm on the case, he's not safe, but I can't leave and let the vamps take out more people." His voice held a tinge of desperation by the end.

"Don't worry," Jim soothed. "I will take him home with me. It will be okay."

"Thank you," Dean said gratefully. "I'll come as soon as I can. I just need to finish this job first."

"You take as long as you need. I will keep him safe. Does he know I'm coming?" he enquired.

"No," Dean said apologetically. "I didn't want to make it worse by telling him before I left; he's struggling so much already. I figured we'd wing it."

"I will help you." Jim vowed.

"I know," Dean said, glancing at him. "You always do."

Jim smiled sadly. "That is what friends are for."

They passed the rest of the relatively short journey in silence until Dean pulled them up in front of the motel room. He took a moment to prepare himself before climbing out and walking to the door. He used the keycard to open it and walked in saying, "Hey, Dad. I…" He stopped as he saw John's position. He was standing in front of the map, just as he had been the day before, but this time there was none of the vagueness there was the day before. John was visibly shaking.

Dean turned back to Jim and spoke in a low voice, "Give us a minute?"

Jim nodded and stepped back to lean against the car. Dean closed the door, walked to his father, and laid a hand on his arm. John was crying. Tears were streaming down his cheeks and his body shuddered with sobs.

"Dad…" he said sadly, feeling his own misery rising again.

John looked at him. "Dean?" he sounded as if he wasn't sure of what he was seeing. "I thought…" He drew a hitching breath. "I thought you left."

"I went out, is all," he said quickly. "I needed to get something."

"Oh." He started to turn back to the map, but Dean grabbed his shoulder. "Look, Dad, Jim's here."

John frowned. "What?"

"He needs our help," Dean invented. "There's a hunt in Blue Earth and he needs your backup."

John looked at him for a long moment and then said, "You're sending me away again, aren't you?"

"I'm not sending you away. I'm getting you help," Dean said.

"I don't need help. I only need you."

Dean smiled sadly. He wished that was true. "I need you to go with Jim for a while. Get some rest."

"I'm not sick, Dean," he said, anger bleeding into his tone.

"I know!" Dean said quickly. "I know that better than anyone. I need you to do this though, Dad. Go to Blue Earth, and just take a little time. I'll come as soon as I can."

"I'm not leaving you to hunt alone," John growled. "You could get hurt."

"I won't be alone," Dean lied. "I've got Bobby coming in to help." He swallowed hard. "If you go with Jim, you'll be able to focus fully on the Shtriga. e can helpYou might find something if your attention isn't split."

"Is this what you really want?"

"It's what I _need_ ," Dean said, knowing that would convince his father. John always, _always,_ tried to give Dean what he needed.

"Okay. I'll go," he agreed. "You're right. It might help to be away from the distractions. But you have to be careful. You promise me?"

"I will," Dean said. "I will call every day and fill you in on what's going on, and when it's done I'll come to you."

John nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah." He hesitated a moment before saying, "I'm sorry I do this to you, Dean. I don't mean to."

"I know," Dean said. "I understand."

"I really thought it was him," John said sadly, looking back at the map.

"I know, Dad," he said again. And that was precisely the problem. John thought he saw Sam in strangers, and that brought him to this point, where he had to go and be taken care of by their friends as he moved through the grieving process all over again. Though Dean wondered sometimes if John had ever passed through all the stages. Never in his life, through all the times it had happened, could Dean remember John reaching acceptance.

* * *

 **So… That was brutal to write. I knew when I started outlining the story that it was going to be a different kind of John than we're used to seeing, but he still caught me off guard when I started writing these scenes.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	4. Chapter 3

**Thank you Jenjoremy for working your beta magic on this for me, and thank you Gredelina1 for everything you do.**

 **You guys have been awesome with your reviews. I expected some anger for the direction the last chapter took, but you've been very understanding. Thank you so much xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Three**_

After dropping his father and Jim off at the airport, having sworn again to be careful and call every day, Dean went back to the motel and showered in hopes that the hot water would kick-start his exhausted brain so that he could think clearly and make some headway on the case. He wanted to get it taken care of as soon as he could, both because he wanted to save lives and also because he wanted to get back to his father's side, to see him through this latest crisis.

It wasn't down to Jim to do it any more than it was Ellen and Bill or Bobby, all of whom had played their parts in the past. In the end, it was Dean's job, and yet he was stuck in California while John was on his way across the country away from him.

He considered calling in another hunter to finish hunt for them, but John wouldn't like that. He would remind Dean that they had claimed the job the day they pulled into town, and it was down to them to finish it.

He was rinsing his hair when he heard his phone trilling in the bedroom. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist before rushing into the room just in time to see the screen go dark as the voicemail kicked in. Cursing, he wrapped the towel a little tighter around himself and waited for the message alert to come. When it beeped, he dialed his voicemail and called up the message.

" _Uh… Hey, Dean. It's Sam, Sam Hydeker. I just heard about the body that was found, and I was wondering if you knew about it. You've got my number, so call me if you need anything."_

Dean ended the call and stared at his phone for a moment. Another body. Another death. Though there was no chance he could have cracked the case in the night during which he had been taking care of John instead, he still felt guilty that he had been distracted.

There was also the slimmest sliver of resentment towards Sam Hydeker. Had it not been for him, John would be on the hunt with him still. There would be two of them working the case, saving people. It was unfair, stupid, and he knew it. John was already struggling before he saw Sam. With the hunt for the Shtriga occupying him but getting nowhere, John had been on the verge of a break for a while; Sam just happened to be the unfortunate trigger. It was easier to lay blame at someone else's feet, though, than to admit it was down to him for not being able to help his father when he needed it, and for his failure all those years ago.

He tossed the phone down on the bed and pulled clean clothes out of his duffel. He needed to check out this latest death online, which meant visiting the diner across the street for their Wi-Fi service. He dressed quickly, stowed the laptop in his bag, and set out.

The diner wasn't that busy, given that it was lunch time. There seemed to be more people queuing to collect their coffees from the counter than there were sitting down. He supposed caffeine was more of a demand that sitting down for meals in college country.

He sat down at a corner table where he could see the door and set up the laptop. A waitress in a neat blue uniform approached, and he ordered coffee and a burger, flashing an automatic but wide smile. He had learned from experience that manners and a little charm got you larger portions and swifter service.

When she was gone, he turned his attention back to the laptop, opening a browser and searching a local news page. The story was relatively new, only an hour old and vague, but it sounded like his hunt. A man had been found that morning near the amphitheatre by a dog walker. There was no official word on the cause of death, but they weren't treating it as suspicious.

Dean pressed his fingers to his temples. He didn't know how he was going to solve this. He had to find the nest, but it was going to be hard in an area this populated. People were less likely to keep track of who was coming and going the way they would in a small town. He thought he'd try the bars that evening, see if anyone had noticed a new crowd hanging around at night.

His food arrived, and he saw his plate was heaped with fries and a double stacked burger. He closed the laptop and moved it across the table, out of his way, then picked up his burger and took a large bite.

He almost choked.

Having lived on the road most of his life, he was used to eating in some shady places, and he had more than his share of roadside food-stand stomach issues, but this burger was a whole new level of awful. As he set it down, he turned the plate so he wouldn't see the bite mark, as he was pretty sure it was going to show a half-raw mess.

"Oh, yeah, that was a mistake," he muttered.

He didn't bother with the fries. He grabbed his wallet, dropped a couple bills down on the table and shoved the laptop back in the bag then slung it over his shoulder and made for the door.

"Dean?" The voice was surprised but pleased, and Dean turned toward it and saw Jessica walking away from the counter with two paper cups of coffee in her hands. She beamed at him. "Hey. How are you doing?"

Dean nodded back to his table where the remains of his meal sat. "Not great."

"Oh, you ate here?" she whispered. "Big mistake." She lifted the cups in her hands. "They lost their regular cook a few weeks ago, and we're all suffering for it. The coffee's still the best in town, but don't order off the menu."

"I'll remember that next time," Dean said.

"If you want good food, go to Betsy's. It's near the library, so you'll have to share with us college types, but her burgers are to die for." She grinned. "I can show you where it is if you're still hungry."

His dour mood couldn't persist in the face of her enthusiasm. He felt himself smiling in return. "Thanks, but I am not feeling that hungry now."

"No, I guess you wouldn't be," she said, peering round him at his plate with a frown. "You should try Betsy's sometime though. She's the best." She brightened. "I know! Come to our place for dinner. Sam's an awesome cook, and he'd be happy to see you again."

Dean frowned. He'd been hunting actively for over ten years, and he had never been invited to dinner by anyone. Breakfast the morning after a good night with a woman was more his speed. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse, to say he didn't have time, but she looked so pleased at her idea that he didn't have the heart. Besides, he hadn't had a home cooked meal since Bobby's chili a month ago, and apart from being hot enough to burn your lips off, it wasn't memorable.

"I'd like that," he said. "When should I come?"

Her answering smile was dazzling. "Is tonight okay for you? Around seven?"

"I'll be there," Dean said.

"Great. I'll see you then." She beamed at him once more and then walked out of the coffee shop, a bounce in her step.

Dean watched her go, a smile curving his lips. Dinner with her and Sam would be a new experience at least.

* * *

Sam turned the salmon fillet carefully in the pan, listening to the sizzle and smiling to himself. When Jessica had come back to the park where they were spending their afternoon studying in the early sun, coffees in hand and bearing the news she'd invited Dean over for dinner, he'd been surprised. The most entertaining they usually did was chips and dip in front of the game. But she'd been so enthused, talking about the disaster that was Dean's lunch, so Sam had just grinned and set to work making a grocery list. When afternoon bled into early evening, they passed a happy half-hour in Whole Foods gathering the ingredients needed, and came back to the apartment in time for Sam to start preparing and Jessica to tidy the apartment a little.

Now, as Sam was finishing the salmon and Jessica was watching him work, Sam was quizzing her on her motivation.

"I thought you liked him," she said.

"I do," Sam said. "It's just not the norm for us to throw dinner parties."

"It's hardly a dinner party," she said. "It's just he seemed a little down, and I think it was more than the crappy food. I felt bad for him and thought maybe we could help."

Sam leaned over to her, one eye on the pan still, and kissed her. It was simple things like Jessica's kindness to Dean, who was a practical stranger, that made him appreciate just how lucky he was that she had chosen him of all people to love. He must have done something truly good in a past life to deserve her.

"You don't mind really do you, baby?" she asked.

"No," Sam said easily. "I wanted to talk to him about the latest killing anyway."

He had called him earlier in the day for that specific purpose. Despite their brief acquaintance, he hadn't hesitated before calling, feeling in his gut that Dean wouldn't mind.

"Yeah," Jessica said a little sadly. "I can't believe they're still saying animal attack."

"Me either," Sam said bitterly.

Jessica leaned her head against his shoulder, and sighed. "It'll work out.

At seven o'clock exactly, there was a knock on the door and Jessica hurried to answer it. She came back into the kitchen a moment later with Dean in tow. He understood at once what Jessica had meant about him seeming sad. There was a haunted look in his eyes.

"Hey," Sam said with a smile. "Good to see you again."

"You too," Dean replied. "I appreciate the invite. I hope you haven't gone out on your way for me."

"You've made his day, Dean," Jessica said. "Sam _loves_ to cook, and rarely gets a chance to show off his skills. I'm a burger and fries girl usually myself, whereas Sam's Mr. Health."

Dean looked dubiously at the salmon Sam was sliding onto the plates. "Yeah. I'm with you there on the burgers."

Jessica laughed. "Don't worry. It tastes way better than it looks."

Sam tossed a dishcloth at her and said, "It looks fine. You're just not used to food without a side order of grease."

Jessica glanced at Dean whose lips twitched and quickly turned away. Sam rolled his eyes. "Beer, Dean?" he asked.

" _Please_."

His tone was so grateful that Sam chuckled. Jessica took three beers from the fridge and handed them to Sam and Dean, twisting off Sam's cap for him so he could grab a swig one-handed as he plated the potatoes and green beans. He added a serving of sauce and then picked up two plates.

"Ready," he said, setting the plates down on the table Jessica had set for them.

Dean took a seat with Sam on one side and Jessica on his other.

Sam watched Dean as he took his first bite and grinned as his look of trepidation morphed into surprise.

"Damn," Dean said "That's good."

"Right?" Jessica said proudly. "My man can cook."

"I didn't have much of a choice but to learn," Sam explained. "My Dad's a doctor and he worked crazy hours. It was learn to cook or live on mac 'n' cheese and SpaghettiOs."

For a moment, Dean looked strange, almost as if Sam had said something upsetting, but he quickly covered it with a smile and said, "I know what you mean. My Dad's a freelance reporter, too, and he never had much time for cooking. I didn't step up and learn like you, though. I have become a master at ordering in and diner menus." He shot Jessica a smile. "Some I won't be returning to."

Jessica grimaced and looked at Sam. "Seriously, baby, his burger was so rare a good vet would have been able to save it."

Dean's eyes widened for a moment and then he laughed loudly. Sam joined him, and Jessica grinned at them both.

When they had settled, Dean asked, "Where are you from, Sam?"

"All over really," he replied. "I was born in Arkansas and moved around growing up. My Dad's got a place in Oregon and he works in a hospital there right now. How about you?"

"We moved around a lot, too. We have friends that we crash with occasionally, but mostly we live on the road."

"You grew up on the road?" Jessica asked. "That must have been tough."

"Yeah," Dean said thoughtfully. "I guess it was. It was harder when my brother was young—" He cut off abruptly, and the look of sadness returned.

"You have a brother?" Jessica asked. "Is he a reporter, too?"

"No," Dean said, his voice gruff. "We lost him when he was really young, and my mom before that. It's just me and Dad now."

Sam felt sympathy for him. He understood how it felt to grow up without a mom. He had no memory of his own mother. She had died long before he could remember. He couldn't think of a way to tell Dean he understood how he felt, though, not without sounding stupid. Thankfully, Dean spoke then and the awkward moment was broken.

"How about you both?" he asked. "Big families?"

"No, it's just me and Dad," Sam said. "Jess has enough siblings for us both, though."

"I have four older brothers and two younger sisters," Jessica explained.

"And a million cousins," Sam added.

Jessica smiled. "Yeah. Family reunions for us take some real organising."

"Four older brothers." Dean whistled and looked at Sam. "Must make it tough on you, dating the little sister."

"You have no idea," Sam said. "I took so much flack the first time we all met. They grilled me hard."

"They're just protective," Jessica said. "And I'm worth it."

"You are," Sam said, smiling across at her.

Dean watched their exchange with a strange smile. It made Sam realize they were maybe being a little too coupley for company they didn't know that well. He quickly redirected, asking Dean about the article.

"I have nothing new," he admitted. "I had something of a family crisis yesterday, so I didn't get to do much more after I spoke to you. I am going to get back on track tomorrow though."

"It can't be easy," Jessica said sympathetically, "with the cops seemingly set on it being an animal."

Sam speared his last piece of fish onto his fork hard and pushed it around his plate. He had lost his appetite with the reminder of the inept cops' response to the deaths that seemed so obviously criminal to anyone else.

"I'll take care of it," Dean said, fixing his eyes on Sam. "I promise."

It seemed strange phrasing, as if Dean was personally going to find the murderer himself, but Sam shrugged it off and said, "Who's for dessert?"

Dean looked down at his empty plate and nodded. "If it's anything like that dinner, then hell yeah."

"It'll be even better," Jessica said. "It's blueberry pie, and I made it."

Dean grinned. "Sounds great."

Sam and Jessica stood and picked up the plates. "It's okay," Sam said quickly when Dean made to stand. "We've got it."

He set the plates down on the counter and started filling the sink so that he could soak the plates before the remnants of food dried on. He rolled up his sleeves and put them in the soapy water while Jessica sliced the pie.

"Cream or ice cream, Dean?" she asked.

Dean considered for a moment and then said, "Ice cream, please."

Jessica plated the dessert and Sam sat back down at the table. He was about to say something to Dean then he noticed he looked a little shocked as he looked at him; his gaze seemed fixed on Sam's arm. "You okay?" Sam asked.

"What? Oh, yeah," Dean said, averting his eyes.

Sam looked down to see what had drawn Dean's attention, and he realized it was the scar he had running up from his wrist. It was so old it was silver, though still noticeable as it was raised from his skin. He traced a finger over it automatically and said, "My war wound," with a wry smile.

"War wound!" Jessica scoffed.

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"Maybe not a war wound," he admitted. "I fell off a slide and landed on broken glass some jackass had left in the play park. I don't remember it, I was only four, but my Dad says it was quite the drama."

Dean nodded slowly. "I'll bet."

He still looked a little disturbed, so Sam rolled down his sleeve and hid the scar from view.

"How about you, Dean?" Jessica asked with a smile as she set the plates of dessert down in front of each of them and sat down. "Got any 'war wounds'?"

"A few," Dean said thoughtfully as he picked up his spoon. "Yeah, I've got a few."

* * *

 **So…How bizarre what that? It was strange to write Sam and Dean interacting but not being Sam-and-Dean the way we're used to.**

 **I am still working on the story at the moment, writing some really exciting stuff that I think you guys will love, and wanted you to know how grateful I am for the enthusiastic reviews and PMs you're sending. When the story fights back, they keep me going.**

 **Until next time...**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	5. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for fixing and improving this chapter for me. Thank you also Gredelina1 for helping me outline and review each chapter.**

 **Thank you all for reading and reviewing. You continue to blow me away with each chapter. I am so grateful to you all xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Four**_

Dean pulled the Impala to a halt outside his motel room and climbed out. He was distracted, juggling his coffee and bag of donuts with the keycard, so he didn't immediately notice the car parked in the spot beside his. Only when he was in his room and setting his burden down did he look out and recognize Bobby's Chevelle. He was still frowning at it when he saw the man himself climb out. He went to the door and pulled it open just as Bobby raised his fist to knock.

"Hey!" Dean said, his voice welcoming.

"You seem surprised to see me," Bobby said.

"I am."

"Strange, since I was apparently supposed to be heading over here to work this vamp case with you."

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and managed to look sheepish. "Sorry, Bobby. I meant to call, but I got distracted."

"Yeah, going after a nest alone has got to be distracting." He narrowed his eyes. "Distracting and dumb."

"Who called you? Jim?"

Bobby sat down at the table and stretched his legs out in front of him with a groan. "Three days on the road sure takes its toll these days."

"Who called?" Dean asked again.

"Your daddy."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Yep. Asked me to take good care of you while I was here. Don't worry," he said, forestalling Dean's question. "I didn't let on that it was news to me. I told him I was already on my way to you, just did a little vague digging to find out where exactly you were first. I don't think he suspected."

"Thank you, Bobby," Dean said gratefully.

He was pleased at the news that John had made sure he had back up. It had to mean things weren't as bad as they sometimes were. In the past, when it had been necessary to take him to Jim's, The Roadhouse, or Bobby's place to recover a while, he'd been too lost to think of things like that; sometimes he hadn't even seemed to notice if Dean was there or not. Maybe this would be an easy episode. He could be back on his feet faster. The longest it had taken before was three months; all that time had been spent at The Roadhouse, under Ellen and Bill's feet and upsetting Jo who had still been in pigtails at the time. Dean hadn't been that old himself either, but he had been old enough to step up and take care of his dad, just like he used to do for Sammy.

His life since he was four-years old had been that of a caretaker. He had looked after Sammy in the early days of John's grief, learning to change diapers and feed a baby on the hop for the days in which John didn't seem to see them there. Then, as Sammy had grown, it became easier, practiced. The priority was to keep him safe, happy and fed. That was Dean's job. He did everything he could to fulfill that role. He failed more than once—the last was the worst, irrevocable time.

When Sammy was lost, when John broke completely for the first time, Dean became his father's caretaker. He took care of him the best way his eight-year old self could, even through his own grief and guilt. He remembered how he had expected to be blamed for Sammy's death every waking moment, waiting for the day his father would realize how he had failed him.

That day never came.

"So, what happened this time?" Bobby asked. "What triggered him?"

"A kid on campus," Dean said.

"He think it was Sammy?" Bobby asked.

Dean nodded. "He didn't get close to approaching him though."

"Good." He paused a moment. "Did he look even like him this time?"

Dean sighed as he took the spare chair. This was why he preferred to take John to Jim or Ellen and Bill when he was struggling. Bobby tried, but he was a practical man and not given to delving too deep into emotional scenes—a lot like John used to be. He didn't truly understand what happened to John when he had his episodes.

Dean suspected Bobby had suffered deep loss in his life, too, but he had chosen to deal with it through closing down the memories in his mind. John had done the opposite. He kept Sammy and Mary close to his heart and mind, and that meant he saw them in other people's faces.

"A little," he answered. "Actually, okay, some."

He thought again of that scar on Sam's arm and rubbed a hand over his face. He was jumping at shadows he knew, seeing ghosts because of the idea John had planted in his mind, but he remembered a wound that would have scarred on Sammy's arm like that.

"Actually, his name is Sam, too," Dean said quietly. "And, yeah, there are similarities, like the eyes, and he has this scar just like Sammy's, but…" He shook his head.

"But Sammy's dead," Bobby said, his tone not unkind.

"Exactly. It's eerie as all hell, but it's just coincidence."

"Yes," Bobby said solemnly. "It is."

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face. It was early, and already he was exhausted.

"So, about this hunt, where are you at?" Bobby asked.

Glad of the change of subject, Dean said, "I've spent the past couple days asking around about anyone new to the area. It's not exactly small town social here though, so I'm having trouble. I heard this morning that there was one group that were new and liked to hang at this specific bar, so I figured I'd go by tonight and see if they're there—thought maybe I'd be able to follow them back to their place."

"Got dead man's blood?" Bobby asked.

"Plenty," Dean said. "Dad raided a funeral home before… Well, he got us some."

"Okay, then," Bobby said, checking his watch. "I don't know about you, but I could eat. Saw a decent looking place across the street. You up for it?"

"No!" Dean said quickly. "I had a burger there the other day that almost walked off my plate. There's this place called Betsy's that's good though."

"Look at you, going all native," Bobby said, amused.

"I'm not," Dean said. "I was just told about it by a friend."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "You're making friends? That doesn't sound like the Dean Winchester I know. There's a story there, isn't there?"

Dean shrugged. "I can talk to people. Besides, it's not like they'll find anything out. I'll probably never see them again once I leave town."

* * *

Jessica was right: Betsy's was damn good. Dean was just finishing what was possibly the juiciest cheeseburger he'd ever eaten, when his phone rang. He chewed quickly and swallowed as he checked the caller ID.

"Ellen!" he said, surprised. "Everything okay?"

" _Well, honey, I was going to ask you the same thing."_

"I'm fine," Dean said automatically.

" _You sure about that? Because I spoke to John."_

Dean sighed heavily. "Yeah. We're having a little blip right now, that's all."

Bobby's eyebrows rose as he stared determinedly at his almost empty plate. Dean scowled at him.

" _I guessed as much,"_ she said. _"He's been on the phone, chasing down information from Ash."_

"The Shtriga?" Dean asked hopefully.

" _Afraid not. He wanted him to look up some kid."_

"Sam…" Dean groaned.

" _Yeah, that's the one. I'm guessing he 'saw' him again."_

"Yeah."

He heard her sigh crackle over the line. _"I'm sorry, sweetie."_

"It's okay," Dean said quickly. "We're sorting it." He hesitated, curiosity battling common sense. Curiosity won out. "What did Ash find?"

Bobby looked up at him sharply. Dean held up a hand to forestall his comment and listened to Ellen.

" _He's just a regular kid, Dean. Well, maybe not completely regular: he's had a crazy good GPA through high school and college, even though he apparently moved around a lot, and great recommendations for his admittance to Stanford from some impressive people. His dad's a doctor and Sam was a volunteer in hospitals during high school. He's got a whole life though, Dean, a father, and according to his Facebook profile a girlfriend, too."_

"Yeah, I met her."

" _You met her! Dean, tell me you're not getting involved."_

Dean didn't want to lie, so he stayed silent. He wasn't sure if involved was the word to use for what happened with Sam and Jessica. He'd spent some time with them and enjoyed it, but like he'd said to Bobby, he wouldn't see them again after he left town.

" _Dean…"_ she said in a warning tone.

"I'm being careful," Dean said. That was mostly true. "Look, Ellen, I need to go. If Dad calls again, let me know. I'll talk to him, too. It'll be okay."

It wasn't the first time John had involved Ash in one of his sightings. The problem for Dean was that it meant John obviously was deeper in it that he'd thought. It seemed to him that the sense the call to Bobby had made was the anomaly, not the call to Ash. He would have to talk to Jim again, see how he was really doing.

" _Make sure you are. And keep in touch. I want to know what's happening with you, Dean."_

What she meant was she wanted to know how he was really doing—if he was falling into the same trap as his father. He appreciated her concern and the affection it showed, but he wished there was no need for the call at all.

" _I will. Bye, Ellen,"_ he said.

She bid him farewell and Dean set the phone down on the table again.

"You met who?" Bobby asked at once.

Dean pushed his plate away and took a swig of his coffee to buy himself time.

"Dean…"

"I've met Sam and his girlfriend," he admitted. "I interviewed Sam before I knew who he was, and I went to their place for dinner a couple days ago."

Bobby looked almost angry. "Who he was? He's not anyone but a college kid you met twice!"

"I know," Dean said quickly. "I just meant who Dad _thought_ he was. I'm not getting involved, Bobby, I swear."

"You've never lied to me before," Bobby said.

"And I'm not lying now! I know what I'm doing. He's just a kid, a part of the case, yeah, but that's all."

Bobby nodded slowly. "Good. Keep it to that."

"I will," Dean said. "No problem."

Though internally he wondered if it would be that easy.

* * *

Sam watched the people spilling out of the library, shepherded out at closing by the librarian, and he smiled and waved to friends as they passed the spot where he waited at the bottom of the steps.

He heard Jessica's laughter before he saw her. She came through the doors a moment later, her books in her arms and a bright smile on her face.

"Told ya," Becky said, nodding at Sam.

"What did you tell her?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"That you'd be here, like a knight in shining armor, ready to escort your beloved home," she said with a grin.

"Don't tease him," Jessica scolded. "He's worried, is all."

"Sorry, Sam," Becky said. "You know I don't mean it. I think it's sweet that you take such good care of her."

"Who's taking care of _you_?" Sam asked.

"Me," Zach, Becky's brother, said, ambling up behind him. "Mom's orders. Sorry I'm late, got caught up with Brady again. You ready, Becks?"

"Yep," she said, bouncing down the last of the steps. "Hey, we're going to Scotty's for a couple beers if you're interested."

Jessica glanced at Sam and shook her head. "No. It's been a long day. I'll call you tomorrow, though."

"Kay," Becky said, waving a hand at Sam and Jessica and then walking toward the town with Zach.

Sam took Jessica's books from her and they set off toward their apartment. For a while they walked in companionable silence, and then Sam asked. "You had a long day?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "Professor Clarke dropped a pop quiz on us."

"How do you think you did?"

"Okay, I think. How about you? How was your day?"

"Day was quiet but I have a bunch of reading and an essay due. Luckily I've got the weekend to do it, otherwise I don't think I'd get it done."

"What's the essay?" Jessica asked.

"The moral conflict in defense of gross guilt. I thought I'd do Bundy v. Florida."

Jessica shuddered. "That's gross guilt if there ever was."

"Exactly," Sam said.

They walked on a little further and Jessica said speculatively, "The Cardinals are playing Sunday. Think you'll have time…?"

Sam pretended to consider, though Jessica knew his answer before she asked the question. He took his football seriously and seldom missed a home game. "I'll make time," he said.

She grinned. "I'll see who's free. We can make an evening of it."

"Sounds good," Sam said distractedly. He thought he heard something. There was a rustle that sounded more substantial than the light breeze in the trees.

"Sam?" Jessica said, concerned.

Sam pulled grabbed her arm and tugged her on a little faster. He could hear it now. Someone or something was moving in the bushes beside them. They were close to the place he'd heard Amada being attacked, and he was suddenly afraid.

"What is it?" Jessica asked hurrying along at his side.

"Someone's there," Sam muttered.

She sucked in a shocked breath. Sam hesitated for a moment as he tried to decide what to do—run or fight. He could run fast, but Jessica wasn't as athletic as him. He was scared she'd fall.

His indecision was what cost him. He heard a strange growling noise behind him and then he felt something hard collide with the back of his head. He dropped Jessica's hand as he fell forward and tried to break his fall. Jessica screamed his name. He made to roll over but someone had what felt like a knee pressed into the small of his back.

"Run, Jess!" he rasped through flattened lungs. "Run!"

He saw her feet disappear out of his peripheral vision as she obeyed and her screams for help became distant. Relief flooding him, Sam momentarily forgot his predicament. It wasn't until he heard a voice ask, "Should I go after her?" that he panicked.

"No," someone replied. "We've got to get this one out of here before someone else comes along."

He heard tires skidding to a halt and then someone grabbed him and hauled him to his feet painfully. His head swam at the change in position, and the spot where he'd been hit throbbed. He tried to turn to see his attackers, it seemed vitally important, but before he could there was another sharp blow to the back of his head and he felt his vision waver and darken. Just before he lost consciousness, he thought he heard someone say. "Size of him, he'll make quite the meal."

* * *

 **So… That sucks for poor Sammy. His sweet little life devoid of the supernatural is going to be turned upside-down now.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	6. Chapter 5

**Thank you Jenjoremy for beta'ing, Gredelina1 for pre-reading and advising, and you all for the wonderful support you have given this story so far.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Five**_

Dean and Bobby spent the evening in the bar he'd heard the potential vampires had frequented, but they hadn't shown, so they'd left defeated. They were both frustrated by the time they got back to the motel, Dean most of all.

As soon as they got through the door, Dean went to the kitchenette and grabbed a couple beers while Bobby flipped on the police scanner and shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the chair. He accepted the beer Dean offered him, took a swig, and looked at him over the neck of the bottle. "It's not like we had a guarantee they'd be there," he said. "We'll try asking around again tomorrow. With both of us working, maybe we can find somebody else that knows them, and if that doesn't work, we'll go back to the bar tomorrow night."

He wasn't coddling Dean as that wasn't his style. He was making Dean see it wasn't over yet in his own way. Dean appreciated it. He didn't need coddling. He'd not had much of that in his life anyway.

Dean's phone rang then, and he pulled it from his pocket, seeing Jim's caller ID, and answered with a concerned, "Jim? Is everything okay?"

" _It's me,"_ John said.

Dean sighed with relief. For Jim to be calling this late meant a problem, whereas a call from John would come at any hour.

"Where's your cell, Dad?" Dean asked, intimating to Bobby that he was going to take the call outside. Bobby nodded and Dean slipped out into the cold night air.

" _I forgot to charge it_ ," he said.

In their line of work, being available at any time was important, which meant keeping your batteries charged. John was usually on top of that and on Dean's ass about it. It wasn't a good sign that he was forgetting. Adding that to the fact John was having Ash dig up information on Sam made Dean worry more now than he had when he'd made the call to Jim in the first place. He needed to speak to his friend somehow, when John wasn't around to find out what was really happening there in Blue Earth.

" _Has Bobby arrived yet?"_ "John asked.

"Yeah, he got here this afternoon. He said you called."

" _Someone had to, don't you think?"_ His tone was mild but Dean felt the weight of his disappointment through the line.

"Yeah, I guess so."

" _How's the hunt going?"_

"It's going," Dean said. "I think I know where I'm going to find the vampires hanging out. We tried tonight, but they didn't show. When we get them, we'll follow them back to their nest and take care of it."

" _Be careful,"_ John said. _"Vampires are smart. They're not animalistic like werewolves."_

"I know, Dad. I'll make sure I'm careful. You do the same though, okay?"

A soft laugh came over the line. _"Son, I'm in Blue Earth. What's going to happen to me here?"_

"I didn't mean hunting," Dean said. "I meant what you're doing to yourself." He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "I spoke to Ellen. She said you have Ash looking stuff up."

" _Dean…"_

"No, Dad! You can't do this. You have to take care of yourself, and getting wrapped up in that isn't going to help you. It's not Sammy. We know that. _You_ knew that before you called Ash, so why did you do it?"

" _Do you remember Sammy?"_ John asked. _"Really remember him, I mean. Do you remember what his laugh sounded like? How his eyes would light up when he was excited about something. How he spoke, dropping his Rs."_

"Yes, I do," Dean said miserably. The emotion came both from the reminder and the realization of how deep in it John was. He wasn't accepting Sammy's death as he had seemed to when Dean sent him off with Jim, as he had said he was. He was confused again.

" _Then you have to understand why I had Ash check."_

"Dad," Dean started in a broken voice, "you can't do this, not to yourself, not to me, and especially not to Sam's memory. It's not fair."

The motel door flew open then and Bobby stuck his head out. "Dean, you need to come hear this."

Dean quickly wiped a hand over his face to hide the evidence on his sadness and said, "Dad, I have to go. I'll call you soon, okay. Take care of yourself." He snapped the phone closed and followed Bobby back into the motel room. His attention was immediately drawn to the scanner which had crackled to life with voices.

" _All units, calling all units! Reports of an assault and kidnap on Arboretum Road."_

" _Base, report Unit 15 as attending. Do we know anything else? How many victims?"_

" _One victim known. The girlfriend managed to escape and raise alarm at Scotty's Bar. She's being taken home by friends—Unit 15 respond to 725 Alma Street—"_

The color drained from Dean's face and the words spoken by the dispatcher became muffled in his ears. He knew that address. He had been there. He had eaten there. It was Sam's place, which meant…

"Dean!" Bobby's voice was harsh and he was close in his face. It obviously wasn't the first time he'd tried to get Dean's attention.

"It's Sam," Dean said, surprised to hear how weak his voice was.

Bobby frowned. "What?"

"Sam. The kid that's been taken is Sam Hydeker—the kid Dad thinks is Sammy."

"Okay," Bobby said slowly.

Dean looked at him, not understanding how Bobby could take the news so calmly. Then he realized there was no reason for Bobby to take it anything but calmly. He didn't know Sam. He hadn't met him or Jessica. He didn't know that they were the closest things to friends Dean had made with civilians in a very long time. He didn't know Dean cared.

"Dean, what aren't you telling me?" he asked in a low voice.

"No time," Dean said, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and grabbing his keys. "I need to go."

"Go where?"

He rushed out of the room without answering and went to the Impala. He pulled open the door and threw himself inside, but when he made to close it, Bobby grabbed it and said, "Dean, wait! We need to stop a minute and think. We need a good cover. They're not going to tell us anything at the scene as reporters."

"I'm not going to the scene," Dean said. "I need to see Jess."

"Who the hell is Jess?" Bobby asked incredulously, then, before Dean could answer, he said. "I'm coming with you."

He released Dean's door and rushed around the car to get in on the shotgun side. Dean slammed his door closed, waited for Bobby to do the same, and then flew out of the spot.

When they were on the main road, Bobby asked, "You going to explain what's really going on, Dean? Who's Jess?"

Dean's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. "Jess is his girlfriend—Sam's. I've met them a couple times. They're good kids, and I want to help." That was it, suitably vague so Bobby couldn't blow a vessel.

"I know you, Dean. I know you helping, and helping doesn't make you act like this," Bobby said.

"Well that's all it is.

"You know this isn't Sammy, right?" he asked.

Dean shot him a glare. "Yes, thanks, Bobby. I know better than anyone that it's not him. I'm the one that lost him after all. I'm the one that screwed up."

Bobby sucked in a breath and Dean didn't need to look at him to know his face would be quickly coloring with anger. "Dean, you didn't…" he started, but Dean spoke over him. "I don't want to hear it. Not right now."

"No, but maybe you _need_ to hear it."

Dean shook his head curtly. "I've heard it all before."

* * *

 _ **1987 — Fort Douglas – Wisconsin**_

 _John had left to find Sammy hours ago, though it felt like it had been days. Dean was sitting on Sammy's bed with his pillow held against his stomach. It smelled like Sammy, but it gave Dean no comfort. Every indrawn breath felt like a knife in his guts, twisting, punishing._

 _Dean was praying. He was begging. He was wishing. His eyes would squeeze shut and he would plead with everything he had that Sammy would be bought home safe. He would do anything. Sammy could keep the Lucky Charm's prize that Dean currently had squeezed in his fist. He could watch whatever he wanted on the TV whenever he wanted. They could go to the park all he liked. Dean would never fall asleep before him again. He would leave the nightlight on instead of complaining. He would always be there to take care of him. He wouldn't ever let Sammy be scared again. He just needed him back, that was all. He needed that door to fly open and his father to come in with Sammy in his arms. That was all he needed. It wasn't much._

 _When the door did fly open, though, it wasn't Sammy; it was Pastor Jim and Uncle Bobby, with John trailing behind them looking as though all the strength had been sapped out of him. He looked deflated, like an old balloon. His shoulders were slumped and his face sagging._

" _Did you find him?" Dean asked his father._

" _No," John rasped._

 _Fresh tears spilled down Dean's cheeks and he gripped the prize so tightly in his hand that it hurt his palm._

" _What did you find here?" Bobby asked._

 _John went to the open window and pointed at the horrible black rotted handprint in the wood. "This was the only sign."_

 _Bobby peered at it. "Shtriga."_

" _That's what I've been chasing," John said. "That's what took him."_

 _Pastor Jim's eyes fell on Dean and they were kinder that he expected, kinder than he had any right to see. "It's okay, Dean."_

" _Okay?" John growled. "Nothing is okay here, Jim. My boy's been taken."_

" _I know," Jim said soberly. "I was just trying to…"_

" _What?" John snapped._

" _He was trying to help the poor kid you left behind," Bobby said harshly. "When you decided to up and leave Dean in charge, even though he's only a child himself, in order to take care of other people, you left him without help. And now Sammy… that poor child has been…" His voice broke._

" _Killed," John whispered. "My poor baby boy's been killed."_

 _Dean felt horror like a shard of ice penetrating his heart, moving through him and making him freeze. Someone was crying, and there were voices talking, trying to soothe, but he couldn't add to their voices as he couldn't breathe. His throat was on fire, and someone was screaming now, and Dean couldn't breathe. It was terrifying._

 _A face swam in front of him and someone squeezed his shoulders hard enough to hurt. "Stop, Dean!" Bobby commanded. "Take a breath."_

 _Dean obeyed without thinking, and that was when he realized the screaming was coming from him. The sound cut off and was replaced by gasping._

" _You're okay," Bobby said, his tone gentle now._

 _Dean looked for his father and saw he was sitting on Dean's bed, his face in his hands and ragged cries breaking from him._

" _Dad, please," he said desperately. "Bring him back. I'll take care of him, I promise. I'll be good. I'll take care of him. Find him, Dad. I won't mess up again, I promise."_

 _John cried harder and Dean felt an arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him close. Bobby's voice spoke gently in his ear. "It's okay, Dean. It's not your fault. None of this is your fault. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing at all."_

 _Dean buried his face against Bobby's shoulder and cried for his brother._

* * *

There was a cop outside the door to Jessica and Sam's apartment. As Dean and Bobby approached, he held up a hand. "Not a good time, fellas," he said, hitching up his belt.

"I need to see Jessica," Dean said. He made to pass but was blocked by the cop's hand.

"I'm afraid Miss Moore is not in the mood for visitors right now."

"I know." Dean rolled his eyes. "Why do you think I'm here? She's my friend."

The cop looked uncertain for a moment, but misplaced power in the hands of an asshole won out and he crossed his arms over his chest like a bouncer at a strip club. "I think she's got enough friends with her."

Annoyed and in no way capable of leaving already, Dean raised his voice. "Jess! It's Dean. Can I come in?"

"Dean?" Her voice was confused. "Yeah, come in."

Shooting the cop a glare, Dean passed him with Bobby on his heels, and went through the hall into the living room.

Jessica was in the armchair Dean had taken before. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her arms hugged around them. She looked waxen and anxious. There was another young woman beside her, perched on the arm of the chair with her hand resting on Jessica's shoulder. She looked strained, and Dean was sure she was a friend of Sam's. Sitting by the kitchen door was another cop conversing on his radio.

The woman beside Jess eyed Dean and Bobby suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"It's okay, Becky, this is Dean," Jessica said in a weak voice. "He's a friend."

"And this is Bobby," Dean introduced. "He works with me. We just heard what happened."

"He's gone," Jessica said, tears brimming in her blue eyes.

"He's been taken," Becky corrected. "He'll be back."

Jessica locked eyes with Dean and he knew she was thinking of the other people taken and how their savaged bodies were found. Dean wouldn't let that happen this time. Not to Sam. He'd find him. Sam would be the one that came back.

"What happened, Jess?" Dean asked. "What did you see?"

"I don't know," she said. "It was fast. It was definitely a man, but I didn't get a good look at him; I was looking at Sam. They hit him and he fell down, and then he shouted at me to run." She drew a hitching breath. "I did. I ran away and left him."

"No," Becky argued. "You ran and got help."

"Too late though," Jessica said. "Sam was gone."

"What do the cops say?" Bobby asked.

"They think it's a ransom thing," Becky replied, looking up at him. "Sam's Dad is pretty wealthy. He does all kinds of investment stuff. We're just waiting for a call."

Jessica's eyes fell on the phone on the table and she seemed to be willing it to ring. Dean felt a wave of pity for her; she had no idea it would not, could not ring for what she needed. Vampires didn't take for ransom, they took for food.

The realization galled Dean. Even now they could be hurting Sam, feeding from him, killing him. He had to act.

"Is there anything else you can think of that'll help us?" Dean asked.

"Help you what?" Becky asked with a raised eyebrow while Jessica looked pensive.

"It doesn't matter what," Dean said quickly, fixing his eyes on Jessica. "Jess, think!"

She closed her eyes for a moment and pressed her fingers to her temples as if in pain. "I can't," she said. "I didn't see anything."

"Okay," Dean said gently. "We have to go, but you have my number. If you need me, or if you think of something, call me, okay?"

She nodded. "What are you doing, Dean?" she asked sadly.

"I'm going to find Sam," Dean vowed.

* * *

 **So… Dean is on the case. These little snippets of the aftermath of Sammy's kidnapping are rough to write, but I hope I'm catching the emotion of it.**

 **I know there was no Sam in this chapter, which might be a disappointment, but he'll be in the next chapter and I promise another mid-week update.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	7. Chapter 6

**Thank you Jenjoremy for fixing this up for me, and Gredelina1 for all you do. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, fave'ing and alerting. It's really appreciated.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Six**_

Sam's head pounded and his thoughts came slow and fragmented. Images moved through his mind like a slideshow, coming without his volition and leaving little understanding: Jessica smiling; Dean at dinner; Zach and Becky waving; a face that scared him; his father smiling at him from over a newspaper at breakfast; a little boy holding a box of Lucky Charms; his desk in his apartment; a full lecture hall; his father standing beside his bed.

The images started to come thicker and faster and it took Sam time to struggle away from them to focus. The first thing he noticed was that he couldn't breathe properly. Something was in his mouth. He reached to pull it out, but he couldn't move his hands. He tried to force the obstruction out with his tongue, and he felt the rough weave of cloth that refused to be dislodged. He was scared that he was going to choke, but instinct took over and he drew a shuddering breath through his nose, calming slightly.

He looked down and saw that his hands had been bound to arms of a desk chair with plastic wire ties that were cutting into his skin. It looked like the sort of chair that should have rolling feet, but when he tried to scoot himself along, the chair rocked but there was no other movement. He guessed the wheels had been removed. There were ropes around his chest, too, and they were tight enough to make him feel claustrophobic.

Panic began roiling in his chest. There was no way he was going to be able to break from the wire ties and he couldn't see the knots in the rope which made him think they were behind him. He was trapped.

The room he was in was long and narrow, and there were vast tanks against the walls that he supposed would once have been shining silver but were now tarnished and dull. The room was dim, illumination coming from a single working strip light on the ceiling that flickered. It was obviously a part of some manufacturing space, and Sam guessed it was a winery. He had once visited the Fogarty vineyard with Jessica and…

Jessica!

The name acted like an electric shock, powering through him and making every nerve come alive. He actually jerked in his chair.

"Jess!" He was shouting but his voice was muffled by the gag. It didn't stop him trying though. His eyes roved the room, searching for a sign of her. Though he had already assessed he was alone, there were other rooms, other places she could be being held. He fell silent for a moment, listening for a sound of response, but all he heard was his own quick breathing. Then there was another sound: heavy footsteps coming toward him.

A door opened at the opposite end of the room and a man walked inside. He was dressed in jeans, an AC/DC t-shirt, and heavy boots. Sam thought he could have stood beside him in any bar in town and not noticed him. He was just another face in a crowd.

The man came toward him slowly, a strange expression on his face. It was vaguely thoughtful. The type of look someone would wear comparing two jars of spaghetti sauce. He didn't speak at first; he just looked at Sam and nodded his head. Sam was scared for himself, but more than that he was scared for his girlfriend.

"What did you do to Jessica?" Sam tried to ask, but it came out muffled and indecipherable.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Huh?"

"Jess," Sam enunciated slowly, but the word still made no sense even to him.

"Can't hear you, buddy."

There were other footsteps, sharp clacks of heels, and a woman came into the room. She didn't pay Sam a moment's attention. She tottered over to the man and spoke urgently. "Trouble, Paul. I just heard on the police scanner, they know he's been taken. The damn girl ran to a bar and they called the cops."

"Stupid bitch," the man, Paul, growled.

The words rushed over Sam and he felt a massive wave of relief. Jessica was safe. He remembered now, telling her to run. She had listened. She wasn't there. For a moment his relief was so great that he forgot that he _was_ there and in danger.

His relief must have shown as the man looked at him and frowned. "You think this makes a difference to you?" he asked. "You're wrong."

Sam just glared back at him defiantly. He thought the man was right though. If the cops were dumb enough to believe murders were animal attacks, it was unlikely they'd crack a kidnapping case before he was dead. The thought of his death didn't scare him as much as he thought it should. It was probably shock, but all he could feel was relief that Jessica was safe.

"Where are Grace and Alec?" Paul asked his companion.

"Keeping an eye on the perimeter," the woman replied. "They're nervous."

"Why?" he asked scathingly. "The cops aren't going to find us here; even if they do, we'll take care of them. It's not like they'll come with dead man's blood."

Sam could only assume that was a codeword for drugs. He wondered if that was the connection. If they were into drugs, they were also surely in need of money. Sam didn't live like it particularly, but his father was wealthy; he and his fathers before him had made good investments over the years. Was this a ransom thing? If so why were the other people killed? Did they not get the ransom or were they merely setting the scene for Sam's capture? He sincerely hoped so, as otherwise he had no hope of making it out alive.

"What about the hunters I saw?"

Paul rolled his eyes. "He didn't look much like a hunter to me anymore, despite his big talk. Broken down old drunk was more like it. Winchester was a threat once, back when he was working with Elkins, but the kid he's with now looked pathetic, crying on the phone."

Sam didn't understand much of what they were saying, but he had another word now to give him hope: hunters. Whatever hunters were—and he was pretty sure they weren't the type that stalked deer—he needed them more than the police, as the woman sounded like she was afraid of them.

"Now," Paul said, cupping the woman's cheeks in his hands tenderly, "you should eat."

"I will if you will," the woman replied.

He smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that."

They both turned to look at Sam appreciatively, and the woman licked her lips. Sam swallowed hard. They stalked towards him and the man gripped his hair and pulled it back, exposing his neck. In his peripheral vision, Sam saw the man open his mouth and realized there was something terribly wrong. There were too many teeth in the man's mouth; his normal teeth were overlaid with long, pointed ones.

He had to be hallucinating. They must have given him some of the drugs they'd been talking about, because otherwise they weren't human.

They each lowered their teeth to a side of his neck and Sam felt piecing pain that made him cry out, then there was another sensation, a drawing, sucking feeling at the points they'd attached themselves.

He tried to shout for help, but his voice was muffled by the gag. And even if it wasn't, there was no one to help: no one but the aforementioned hunters.

* * *

Dean stalked into their motel room and threw his jacket down onto the bed. He took a moment to just breathe, to rake his hands over his face and let himself be scared, and then he pushed it down and forced himself to think in facts.

Sam had been taken and he had to believe it was by the vampires.

He had no idea where he was going to find him.

The last four people taken by them had ended up dead.

They were brutal facts and he didn't want to think about them. The one asset they had that they'd not had before was that they knew Sam had been taken, so they were looking already. Dean didn't think anyone had looked for the other victims at all. If they could just get a location for Sam, they could save him. They hadto save him.

He turned on his laptop and waited for it to load while he paced the room.

"Dean."

"What?" he snapped.

"You need to calm down." Bobby's tone was reasonable enough, but it still irked Dean.

"Sure, no problem. Should I lie down and have a nap too?"

"No, but you're not helping anyone like this, least of all Sam. You need to be cool and calm if you're going to be able to think clearly.

Dean knew he was right, but all he saw when he closed his eyes was the mortuary photos Ash had sent them of the previous victims. If they didn't fix this, Sam was going to be the one on a mortuary slab.

Bobby pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to dial.

"Who are you calling?"

"Backup," Bobby said simply. "More people we have working the problem, the better."

"Not Dad and Jim," Dean said quickly. "I don't want Dad anywhere near this."

"Do you think I'm an idiot? Of course we don't want your father involved right now. Caleb was working a demon hunt in Nevada last I heard. Hopefully he's still there." Bobby dialed and moved to the other side of the room as Caleb picked up. "Caleb, it's Bobby. We've got a bit of a problem…"

Dean's computer beeped as it prompted him to log in and he dropped into the chair at the table. When he had the home screen loaded, he opened a browser and stopped. He didn't know what to do next. He was at a loss. It wasn't like he could Google _'possible vampire nests'_ and get a result. He needed help. He needed a genius.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and quickly dialed the Roadhouse's number. It seemed to ring forever before Jo answered, sounding slightly harried. _"Roadhouse."_

"Jo, it's Dean, I need Ash."

His tone must have tipped her off that it wasn't a social call, as he quickly heard the background sounds muffle and her voice sounding faraway calling for Ash. When Ash came on the line, he sounded drunk.

" _Dean,"_ he drawled. _"What can I do for you?"_

"We're on a vampire hunt in California and a kid's been taken. I need to get him back, Ash, so I need you on the ball."

" _Okay,"_ he said seriously, sounding remarkably more sober than he had just a moment ago. " _What have you tried already?"_

Dean felt embarrassed as he admitted, "I've called you. I've been on the case for days, and we had a location of a bar where the vamps were hanging out in the evenings, but they didn't show. I'm at a loss, man. This kid is important, and I need to find him."

" _I'll do what I can. We can go with tracing his cell phone first. Have you got a number for him?"_

"Yes," Dean said enthusiastically. "Hold on." He flipped through the paperwork on the table, finding the number Sam had scrawled down for him. He recited it off to Ash and waited. It took a minute of listening to Ash whistling through his teeth before he came back to the call. _"No results I'm afraid."_

Dean cursed. The vampires must be smart enough to disable the GPS.

" _Chill, Dean,"_ Ash said. _"It's not over yet. Do you know where he was taken from?"_

"Yeah, Arboretum Road, Stanford," Dean said, "about an hour ago."

" _Okay, this'll take a while, but I'll have a look at traffic cameras."_

"Work fast, Ash," Dean growled. "The last people who were taken were found dead soon after."

" _This kid, he matters to you, doesn't he?"_ Ash said.

"Yes, he matters a lot. Call me when you have something."

" _Will do."_

Dean ended the call without saying goodbye and set the phone down on the table. He raked a hand over his face. They were working the problem now. Ash was on it. They were actively searching to find a way to save Sam.

"Caleb is on his way," Bobby said. "He's about four hours out, but he might be able to trim it down some with the roads being quiet."

Dean nodded without turning to face him.

"And he's going to call around see if anyone else is in the area."

"Good."

"Dean."

Reluctantly, Dean turned and looked into his eye. "Yes?"

"What's going on with you?" Bobby asked. "I've seen you in plenty of tight spots before, with people on the line, but I've never seen you like this. You told Ash that Sam matters, and of course he does, but it sounded like there's more to it than that." He was worried, Dean could tell.

"He's not our Sammy; I know that," Dean said, and he thought he saw a flicker of relief in Bobby's eyes at the admission. "He is someone's Sammy though," he went on. "He's got a girlfriend that loves him. He's got friends. He's got a father and probably a whole lot of other family members that care about him. People are suffering because he's gone, the same way we are without Sammy. Unless we find him, they're going to go through the same thing we did when Sammy died. I hate the thought of someone else feeling what we do."

Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "I get that. You need to prepare yourself though. We might not find him in time, and you need to accept now that it's not your fault if that happens. You are doing everything you can to save him. No one can do more."

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't say he agreed with Bobby because he didn't. It was on him to find Sam, because Sam was the civilian and he was the hunter. It was his job to save.

* * *

It was almost an hour before Ash called, and Dean had paced almost the whole time, making passes of the room like a caged tiger. Bobby had more patience. He had sat at the computer, clicking away at something Dean had no idea of. He hadn't asked and Bobby hadn't volunteered the information.

Dean pounced on the phone the moment it rang. "Ash? What have you got?"

" _I've emailed you a couple files,"_ Ash said.

Dean pulled the laptop away from Bobby and opened his email. He saw the message from Ash at once, and he clicked it open. Two grainy black and white pictures loaded on the screen. Dean sucked in a breath as he took in the subject. In one, Sam was on the ground with someone standing over him and Jess was beside him. In the second Sam was being bundled into a van's open side door. In the second image, the man's face was to the camera, and Dean's eyes widened as he recognized the man. It was the mark he'd hustled at pool only a week earlier.

His hands bunched into fists so tight that his nails cut into his palms. How could he have been so close to the vampire and not noticed? He was furious at himself.

" _Dean, you still there?"_ Ash asked, snapping Dean back to the call.

"Yeah," he growled. "I'm here."

" _I've checked the van's plates. They're registered to a Chevy Truck, so that's no good for us. But I've got a search going on traffic cameras right now. I know it went south on the interstate, and came off at Exit 12 but I can't nail it down any further. There aren't traffic cameras on those roads."_

"This is good," Dean said. They had a vague location now; they just had to find the actual spot. Dean thought they wouldn't have gone too far, as they'd want to be close to their hunting and dumping ground.

"Okay, Ash. I need you to search the area for anywhere likely as a base for them. Look for anything abandoned. Crosscheck police reports for people squatting. Anything you can think of to narrow it down, okay?"

"On it," Ash said. "I'll call as soon as I have anything."

"Thanks, Ash."

When he had ended the call, he grabbed his jacket and keys and started toward the door, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't alone. It wasn't until Bobby clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder that he stopped.

"Well?" Bobby said.

"Ash has found the van they took him off in on traffic cameras. They took the interstate south and then an exit."

"That's good, but what are you planning to do now, ride around hoping you stumble across them?"

Dean didn't understand why Bobby was being so disparaging. What was he supposed to do if not get out there and search?

"Yes," he said angrily. "And if I see something, I'm tooling up and going after it. That okay with you?"

Bobby sighed. "You're smarter than this, Dean. You're a better hunter. Rushing in and getting yourself killed is going to save no one. You have no idea how many vampires are there. We need to wait for Caleb to back us up."

Dean shook his head. "We can't." What he meant was that _he_ couldn't. The idea of waiting while Sam could be dying was inconceivable. "Look, Bobby, I'm going. You want to come along, that's awesome. You don't, I'll understand. Either way, I'm going. I can't let this kid die."

Bobby looked angry and frustrated, but he picked up his jacket and brushed past Dean out of the door. Thanking him quietly, Dean followed.

* * *

Sam was drifting on the waves of pain. The wounds in his neck burned like fire and his head pounded like a bass drum, but the pain wasn't enough to keep him from feeling like he was going to fall asleep at any moment. Though he didn't think it was sleep waiting for him—he thought it was likely death.

It was that knowledge that made him fight to stay conscious. He fixed the faces of Jessica and his father in his mind and he fought for them. He couldn't leave them. He told himself that he just had to stay strong, alive, long enough for the hunters to get there and save him.

Another use of fixating on Jessica and his father was that it helped him to not think about the people that had bitten through his neck and apparently _drank_ _his blood_.

So he drifted, and waited, and concentrated on the people he loved to get him through it, so distracted that he didn't immediately recognize the sounds of rescue for what they were. He heard shouting and a scream which made him wince, and then someone burst into the room.

He dragged himself out of his mind and looked at the newcomer. The man was probably in his mid-fifties; he had a scrubby beard and wore a trucker cap, and in his hand was the longest machete Sam had ever seen. As he looked at Sam he wore a look of astonishment. "Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam said, surprised by how weak his voice was. "Help?"

"Dean!" the man shouted over his shoulder. "I found him!"

"Dean?" Sam asked, his brow furrowing. "What's Dean…" He trailed off with a moan as the man pressed something to the wounds on his neck. It burned even more now and he tried to pull away.

"Easy," the man said gently. "You're okay."

Sam tried to hold still, but the pain had brought him completely out of his head and back to himself, and it was so much more intense now.

He heard footsteps rush into the room, and a voice he knew was swearing. Sam forced himself to focus through the pain and he saw Dean rushing towards him, dropping his own machete to the floor with a clatter.

"You get the woman?" the older man asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied. "I got them both. It's clear now."

"Okay, we need to get him to a hospital. It looks like they took a lot of blood, and I'm not liking his pupils."

Dean ducked his head into Sam's line of sight and he cursed again. "Damn, they're blown."

Sam realized they were talking about him and knew he should feel concerned for himself, but something Dean had said was looping in his mind. " _I got them both."_

"Four," Sam slurred.

"What, Sam?" Dean asked.

"There were four of them."

Bobby hefted the blade over his shoulder again and Dean ran across the room towards his dropped weapon. Before he could reach it, the man and woman that had attacked Sam before raced in. The man dropped to a skid and picked up the machete and then rose to his feet in a movement that was too fast to be natural. Sam saw through blurred eyes that their teeth looked strange again.

"Hunter," the woman said in a hiss.

"Vampire," Dean said scathingly.

Sam tried to cry out a warning to Dean, who was standing unarmed in front of them, but the loss of more blood from where Bobby had disturbed the clotting wounds was making him even weaker.

"Dean," Bobby called, dropping to a crouch and sliding his blade across the floor. Dean caught it with the heel of his shoe, bent quickly, and straightened with it held tight in both hands.

The man rushed at him and Dean leaned back on his heels then pushed himself forward, swinging the blade through the air. It hit the man's neck and sliced right through, sending his head dropping to the ground with a cracking sound, the body following.

Sam stared at the head in shock and revulsion, hearing the woman's scream cut off abruptly then another two thuds as pieces hit the ground.

"Sam, you okay?" Dean asked, rushing towards him.

"I think he's gonna…" Bobby started, but Sam heard no more as darkness descended.

His last fragmented thought was, _'Vampire?'_

* * *

 **So… What do you think? Sam being all innocent and clueless about vampires was fun to write, though now the poor guy's eyes have been opened. There's a big conversation with Dean to come.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	8. Chapter 7

**Much thanks to Jenjoremy for beta'ing, Gredelina1 for helping me plot and plan, and you all for reading and supporting the story. You're all awesome.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Seven**_

Almost the moment the Impala skidded to a halt outside the hospital, Sam was swept away by the emergency room team and Dean was left alone. He drove the Impala out of the ambulance bay and into a spot in the parking lot. Then he walked back through the main doors of the ER and went straight to the reception desk.

"Sam Hydeker. I just brought him in. Do you know how he's doing?" he asked the woman behind the desk."

She clicked at her computer keyboard with the tips of her long, pink painted fingernails, and then looked up at him. "I'm afraid there's nothing on my system about him. Try not to worry. That just means they're busy taking care of him instead of filling out records."

"Thanks," Dean said.

The woman smiled kindly. "There's a restroom in the corner. Maybe if you cleaned up a little, you'd feel better."

Dean looked down at his hands which were on the counter and was surprised to see that not only were they balled into tight fists, they were also tacky with Sam's blood from where he and Bobby had tried to take care of him in the factory. His shirt was damp too from where they'd carried him.

He nodded distractedly. "Yeah, thanks."

Eyes followed him as he walked away from the counter to the restroom. He supposed he must make quite the gory sight. He was careful not to leave a bloody handprint on the door as he entered.

The restroom walls were a stark white that looked as sterile as any operating room. He felt like he was dirtying the place as he set his hands under the tap and ran the water. Blood diluted and ran into the basin and down the drain. He rubbed soap into his knuckles and the creases in his palms to wash away the red, scrubbing hard. When they were clean he shut off the water and grabbed paper towels to dry them, then gave the basin a cursory wipe to clear the residual blood. There was nothing he could to about the blood on his shirt, but he thought he made a slightly more reassuring sight without the bloody hands.

He went back into the ER waiting room and took a seat in a fairly quiet corner, hearing the hum of words around him and listening carefully for Sam's name. He wasn't sure how long passed before he heard it, but when it came, his head snapped up.

"Sam Hydeker?" an anxious voice asked. "He's my boyfriend."

It was Jessica, and with her was the woman that had been at the apartment with her—Becky—and a young man.

"Someone will come speak to you soon," the receptionist said.

Dean stood and made his way over to her and her friends in time to hear Becky ask angrily, "Why can't you tell us?"

"Someone will be with you soon," the woman said firmly but not unkindly.

Dean touched Jessica's shoulder, and she turned quickly. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of him. "Dean! What happened to you?"

Dean looked down at his bloodied clothes and realized his mistake. "It's not mine," he said regretfully.

"Then whose is… That's Sam's!" She swayed and the man with her wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steadied her.

"Who the hell are you?" the man asked.

"It's okay, Brady," Jessica said weakly. "Dean's the friend I told you about."

"You're the one that was supposed to find Sam?" Brady asked suspiciously.

"I am the man that _found_ Sam," Dean said testily.

"You did?" Jessica asked in a breathy voice. "Oh, thank you, Dean. Thank you."

"Where did you find him?" Brady asked, but at that moment a woman in scrubs came through double doors and toward them, saving Dean the problem of refusing to answer the question.

"Family of Sam Hydeker?" she asked.

"Yes!" Jessica said. "He's my boyfriend. Is he okay?"

"I'm Doctor Patel and I've been treating Sam. He's lost a lot of blood so we are giving him a transfusion right now. He also has a head injury so we're going to send him down for a CT as soon as there's a space."

"Can I see him?" Jessica asked.

"Until he's sent for his CT, yes," the doctor said.

Jessica sighed with relief and turned to her friends. "You'll stay?"

"Of course," they said together.

Dean spotted two cops by the door and he spoke quickly to Jessica. "I've got to go. I'll see you tomorrow if I can."

She nodded distractedly, her attention already through the double doors and with Sam.

Dean rushed away, slipping past the cops as they joined the group around the doctor. He knew they'd want to speak to him, but he couldn't say anything until he knew what Sam was going to say about what had happened to him. They couldn't contradict each others' stories. Dean hoped that Sam had been too out of it with the head injury and blood loss to remember much, as otherwise that was a life-changing conversation Dean didn't want to have.

He walked swiftly to the Impala and climbed in behind the wheel. There was blood on it, he hadn't noticed before, and the thought of driving with Sam's blood on his hands again was abhorrent. He reached into the glove compartment and took out a packet of towelettes they kept in there for situations like this. He wiped the steering wheel clean and then turned the key in the ignition. The engine came to life with a rumble, and he pulled out of the spot, setting out for the road.

* * *

Dean was almost back at the motel, lost in his own thoughts, when his phone rang. With one hand on the wheel he pulled it from his pocket and answered, "Yeah?"

" _It's me,"_ Bobby replied.

Dean immediately felt a pang of guilt. He'd not only forgotten there were still things to be dealt with—like the vampires' bodies—but he'd forgotten that he'd left Bobby at the vineyard without a car to get back to the motel with, too.

"Sorry, Bobby. I got held up at the hospital. I'm on my way now," he said and then braced himself for Bobby's ire.

" _It's fine,"_ Bobby said.

Dean frowned. "It is?"

" _Yeah, Caleb arrived a while ago. We're just about done digging. How's the kid?"_

"They're running a scan on his head injury and he needs a blood transfusion, but he's alive."

" _Lucky kid."_

"Yeah."

And it was pure chance that he was alive. They'd been driving around the night before with no real sense of direction when they'd seen lights burning in the vineyard. A quick call with Ash told them it had been abandoned five years previously when the company went bust. They'd decided to take the risk of scaring the crap out of squatters by going in armed with machetes.

What followed was misted in a red haze within Dean's mind. He'd seen teeth and known they were the ones responsible for the deaths and Sam's kidnapping, and from there it had been anger and swipes of the blade. Only when he had seen Sam tied to that chair with blood spilling from the wounds Bobby was tending to did the haze break and get replaced by relief tempered with worry. Sam was alive, but he hadn't known for how long.

But Sam had made it through, and it was over. At least it should be. Dean still felt like there was unfinished business in California though.

" _What are you doing now?"_ Bobby asked.

"I'm going back to the motel to clean up and then sleep."

" _You're not leaving town?"_

Dean knew that was what he should do. He was here under a false name doing a false job. He'd driven Sam to the hospital and he'd been seen and would surely be named by Sam and Jessica. The cops would want to interview him about what had happened, and he didn't even have the vaguest story ready. And yet he couldn't leave. He needed to make sure Sam was okay before he moved on. He needed… he didn't know what. He just knew it wasn't time to leave yet.

"I'm going to stick around a couple more days. Just to make sure there weren't any others in the nest."

" _Sure, that's a good idea."_

Dean was surprised by Bobby's agreement. It was a weak excuse to stay when they both knew there had only been four in the nest; Sam had told them so. He wasn't going to argue it though when Bobby was not protesting the facts which were that they should be on the road already.

Dean tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder as he turned into the parking lot of the motel and pulled to a stop outside his room. "I'm at the motel," he said. "I'll see you guys when you get here."

" _Make it the morning,"_ Bobby said. _"You get some sleep. I'll bunk with Caleb."_

Surprised again, Dean said, "Okay, thanks, Bobby. I'll see you in the morning," and then ended the call.

He climbed out of the car and let himself into what would be his solitary room for the night. He threw down his jacket and then quickly pulled his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, suddenly unable to stand its tacky feel against his skin. He tossed it into the corner and walked into the bathroom. He set the shower running and stripped down the rest of his clothes quickly before stepping under the spray. He'd not given the water time to regulate, so he was blasted with an icy stream that made him gasp and inhale the spray. He jumped back, sputtering, and fiddled with the controls until the water was hot.

He scrubbed himself down quickly, washing the blood down the drain, but even when he was clean he stayed under the hot water for a long time. He felt the heat massaging and unknotting muscles he hadn't even realized were still tense. Only when his body felt back to its normal state of readiness rather than a coiled spring did he step out and wrap a towel around his waist.

He wandered back into the bedroom and pulled clean clothes out of his duffel. He dried off quickly and then dressed again. He didn't get into bed when he was ready though. He sat on the edge and stared into space as he thought of everything that had happened that night and what was to follow.

He was going to need to talk to Sam to see if he remembered anything of what had happened to him. Dean hoped desperately that with the head injury he wouldn't. If he did though, Dean owed him some kind of explanation or story. He couldn't leave Sam with a lifetime of questions and confusion. That wasn't fair for someone that had been so decent to him. Bobby probably wouldn't like it, but Dean thought that, if he was there, John would understand.

Barely aware of what he was doing, Dean was on his feet and taking his phone from his jacket pocket. He dialed quickly and then sat down on the edge of the bed again as it rang.

" _Dean?"_ John's voice was concerned but alert despite the early hour.

"Hey, Dad."

" _What's wrong?"_

"Nothing," Dean said quickly. "I just wanted to talk, to let you know we caught the vampires today."

" _That's good, Son. Now, what's really going on?"_

Dean sometimes forgot John was a dad. Not a father, he always knew that, but he was a dad, too, that could read his son's mood even though they were hundreds of miles apart and John was in the middle of a breakdown. He felt a lump form in his throat and in that moment he needed nothing more than his dad.

He found himself spilling the whole story of how Sam and Jessica had befriended him, and then Sam had been taken. The only thing he omitted was that it was the Sam John believed was his lost son. He was completely honest about how he had felt when Sam was taken—scared, not himself—and how he was worried about what he was going to tell Sam when there was a risk explaining could make him fear for the rest of his life. He wanted Sam to be a lawyer, to live a wonderful life with Jessica; he didn't want him looking over his shoulder for vampires and the like until his dying day.

" _Okay,"_ John said calmly. _"So you need to just tell him enough to settle his mind but not enough to scare him?"_

"Yeah."

" _Then keep it human. I know you don't want to lie to him, but the kid doesn't need to know the real truth. It's not going to make his life any better knowing vampires exist. He's been through enough already by the sounds of it. Make it easy on him; tell him they were human psychopaths that were out of their heads of drugs."_

"He saw me killing, Dad. I decapitated the vampires right in front of him."

" _Then own it. Tell him you saved his life."_

"And if he tells the cops?"

" _What are they going to prove without the bodies? You've taken care of them, right?_

"Bobby and Caleb are doing it right now."

" _Then it's okay. He sounds like a smart kid, and a decent one. I think you can protect him while giving him peace of mind just fine."_

"Thanks, Dad," Dean said.

" _Now, tell me what else you've been doing,"_ John said.

Dean relaxed back against the headboard and smiled. He wasn't stupid enough to believe John was all the way back to himself, but he sounded better than he had since he'd left for Blue Earth, more like himself. He thought things would be good again soon.

He would help Sam deal with what had happened and then he and John could get out on the road again and things would be back to normal. They'd carry on with their hunt for the Shtriga, saving other lives along the way, and Sam and Jessica could move on with theirs.

He didn't know why the idea of that future made him suddenly sad.

* * *

Dean walked through the hospital doors around ten the next morning. He hadn't slept at all but he felt alert and attentive in the way only sleep deprivation could cause. He went straight to the reception and asked where to find Sam. The woman that had been on duty in the night had been replaced by a older man who was helpful enough to not only give Dean Sam's room number, but directions there, too.

He made his way up to the fourth floor on quick feet, eager now to see Sam, and found his room easily. He knocked before entering and was beckoned inside by a weak voice. He was surprised to see when he opened the door that Sam was alone. He'd expected Jessica to be camped out at his side.

"Dean!" Sam said, clearly startled. "Hey."

He was propped up on pillows and at each side of his throat were white dressings. In the back of his hand was tubing feeding blood into him from a bag hanging at his side. He was pale but his eyes were bright as he looked at Dean.

"Hope you don't mind me just showing up," Dean said.

"No, it's fine," Sam said. "I was going to call you anyway. Jessica's just making a run home to get me some stuff. She'll be sad she missed you. She wants to thank you."

"She already did," Dean said.

Sam smiled fondly. "And she will continue to for a while yet."

"How are you doing?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged and winced. "Okay, I guess. I'm sore as hell but I figure I got off lucky."

"Yeah you did," Dean said fervently and Sam raised an eyebrow.

Sam shifted himself up the bed with a hiss of pain and said, "The cops came by. They said I was brought in by someone that they didn't get a chance to interview. That's you, right?"

""Yes," Dean admitted. "I found you. What else did you tell them?"

"I told them I didn't remember anything between getting grabbed and waking up in the ER." Sam smiled widely and Dean thought he saw more than amusement in it—he thought there was a good amount of cunning there too. "Don't worry," he said. "I definitely didn't tell them I saw you killing vampires."

* * *

 **So… No amnesia for Sammy in this one. Poor Dean. Things just got a heap more complicated for him.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	9. Chapter 8

**Thank you Jenjoremy for the fabulous beta job and Gredelina1 for all your help. Thank you all for reading and supporting the story. You're all awesome xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eight**_

Sam wasn't a stupid man. Quite the opposite -he was intelligent and had more than his fair share of common sense. Of course he knew that he had sustained a head injury that could have muddied his thinking and recollections, but he also knew in his heart that he hadn't imagined what had happened in that abandoned winery. The people that had taken him and attacked him weren't human. He didn't want to believe it, it seemed impossible, and yet it was the truth.

And Dean knew it too.

He didn't look confused by Sam's statement, or worried, as if he was questioning Sam's mental state; he looked panicked. Sam had remembered something Dean really didn't want him to know. While Sam believed that panic was born out of a desire to protect him, he wanted to know the truth. Somehow, it felt very important that he know.

"Man, you must have hit your head harder than the doctors thought," Dean said, trying and succeeding to push down his obvious panic and ride out a lie.

Sam decided the best approach was to ignore his denials and let the truth come out alone. It was something he learned in college—question and wait for someone to make the mistake and slip the truth out against their will.

"Are you a vampire hunter?" Sam asked calmly. "Is that even a thing?"

"No," Dean said. "It's not a thing, because vampires aren't real."

"I kinda hope they are; otherwise, I saw you kill two actual humans, and I'm not sure how I'd feel about that."

Dean affected a shocked expression. "Kill? Me? I'm not a murderer."

"I don't think killing vampires counts. I think you have to kill a human for it to count," Sam said reasonably.

"Look, Sam, I don't what drugs they gave you, but you're 'remembering' things that didn't happen. I was out driving, looking for you, when I found you on the side of the road, damn near bleeding to death. I got you in the car and brought you here. _That's_ what happened."

"Sure, if that's the story you're going for, I'll back it up with the cops. No problem," Sam said amiably.

Dean groaned and ran a hand through his short hair. "It's not a story!"

Sam could tell he was stressing Dean with this conversation, and he felt a little bad about it, but he thought he was good to handle a little more. Sam knew his version of events was the right one, no matter how strange it had been, and he wanted to know the truth of what he had seen. Even though it would have been more comfortable to accept Dean's version of events and leave it there, he had seen things and he needed answers.

"See, I remember it a little different," he said, his tone steady. "I remember waking up in that room and them talking. They were talking about hunters and dead man's blood—which I am assuming is a euphemism for drugs. I remember them talking about feeding, and then I remember them biting my neck and actually sucking my blood."

Dean's eyes were wide as he listened but as Sam finished, he mastered himself again and gave a short laugh. "Are all your dreams that vivid or is it just the concussion dreams?"

Sam had a temper. It very rarely reared its head, but it was starting to build now. He obviously knew the truth of what had happened to him, and Dean knew it too, so why was he refusing to admit it?

"Don't insult me, Dean. Don't you think I deserve the truth?" His voice wasn't the light tone he had been employing so far. His words were bitten off and the change seemed to surprise Dean.

There was a long silence and then Dean opened his mouth to answer only to snap it shut again as the door opened. They both turned to see Jessica coming in. Over her shoulder was a backpack and across her body was a messenger bag. She looked tired and strained as she entered until she caught sight of Dean standing beside the bed; her expression morphed into a wide smile. "Dean!"

"Hey, Jess," he said, his tone relaxed compared to what it had been when he'd been speaking to Sam. He was obviously a brilliant actor. Sam thought he probably had to be with his secret life as a vampire hunter.

Jessica slipped the duffel down her arm and set it on the floor and then unlooped the messenger bag and set it on the end of the bed. Dean stepped back to allow her a clear path to Sam, but Jessica didn't come to Sam; instead, she threw her arms around Dean and clung to him. "Thank you," she said fervently. "Thank you so much."

Dean looked startled and patted her back awkwardly, glancing over her shoulder at Sam who was smiling widely. He'd expected this but Dean apparently hadn't. Sam winked.

When she eventually released him, Dean looked obviously relieved. It made Sam chuckle and then suck in a sharp breath as the wounds on his neck pulled painfully.

Jessica's eyes snapped to him and she looked concerned. "Baby?"

"I'm fine," Sam said with a reassuring smile. "Just a little sore."

"Do you need some more meds?" she asked.

"No, it'll pass. I have weird dreams when I sleep when drugged." He looked pointedly past Jessica to Dean who scowled at him.

Jessica came and perched on the side of his bed, taking his cold hands in her warm ones and rubbing them. She held Sam's eyes for a moment, her worry roiling in her own, and then she turned to Dean and asked, "So what happened last night? I asked the cops this morning, but they said they hadn't had a chance to interview you yet. How did you find Sam?"

"I was… driving," Dean said stiltedly.

"He found me on the side of the road," Sam intervened to save Dean from more lies. "I guess the people that took me dumped me there."

"Thank God you did," Jessica said ardently. "I don't want to think about what would have happened otherwise."

Her eyes drifted back to Sam's face and he squeezed her hand.

"I'm fine," he reassured her.

"Thank God," she said again, wiping at her wet cheeks. She sniffed and said, "Your dad called, Sam. He's on his way from the airport now."

Sam nodded slightly, careful not to pull his stitches. He had spoken to his father early in the morning when the room had stopped spinning and his stomach rolling, and his father had said he was coming, but Sam hadn't expected him this soon.

"Look, if you've got family coming, I'll head out," Dean said. "I'll make a pass by the station and give them my statement."

"You'll come back later?" Sam asked, almost demanded. Jessica gave him a strange look. She was obviously surprised by Sam's unusual rudeness.

"I will," Dean said seriously.

"Thank you."

Dean held up a hand to them in farewell and then pulled open the door and left.

Jessica waited until it had swung closed behind him and then she turned her gaze to Sam. "What was that about?"

Sam rallied quickly. "His article. I think it's nearly finished now, and I don't want him leaving town before we have a chance to thank him properly."

"We should have him come over again when you're out of here," Jessica said. "While your dad's in town, too, they should both come for dinner."

"That's a great idea," Sam said enthusiastically. Aside from his unwillingness to tell Sam the truth about what had happened, Dean was a good guy; he'd saved Sam's life. Sam wanted to at least give him another good meal before he moved onto diners and takeout in the next place he visited.

The door opened then and James Hydeker swooped in. As soon as his eyes settled on him, Sam felt a wave of guilt. His father looked terrible. His eyes were wild and his usually neat hair unruly, as if he had been running his hands through it.

"Sam!" he gasped, rushing across the room and taking Sam's hand in his own.

"I'm okay, Dad," Sam said quickly. "Really."

"You don't look okay," James said. "Does he, Jessica?"

"Oh. Uh… He looked worse before," she replied, and Sam rolled his eyes. His father didn't need to hear that. He hated to worry him. James always had a hair-trigger anxiety response when Sam was unwell or hurt. What had happened to Sam was like something out of a nightmare for him: Sam being hurt when he wasn't there to take care of him.

James' lips pressed into a thin line and his eyes followed the tubing from Sam's hand up to the almost empty bag of blood. "I'm going to find your doctor. I want to know exactly what's going on with you."

Sam smiled slightly. He would have expected no less from his father. As a doctor himself, information was power to him. The more he knew, the better he could help. Sam felt the same way. The more he knew about what had really happened to him, the better he would feel. James wanted the truth, and so did Sam. James would get his from the doctors; Sam would get his from Dean.

* * *

When Dean got back to the motel, Bobby's Chevelle wasn't in the lot but Caleb's '69 Mustang was. He considered going to his room and catching a couple hours sleep, but he knew he should at least thank Caleb for coming in to help when he had, so he redirected his path to the room the Mustang was parked outside.

Before he could knock, the door opened wide and Caleb was revealed on the threshold. "Dean Winchester," he said with obvious pleasure. "How are you doing?"

"Hey, Caleb." They shook hands and Caleb grinned at him.

Dean liked Caleb a lot. He was a little younger than John and Bobby, and more relaxed than either of them. He liked his job and took pride in the fact he was making the world safer for other people, but he wasn't all about the hunt all the time. He knew how to have a good time, too. Dean had spent some enjoyable nights in bars with him, hustling pool and sharing stories. They'd met him a few years after Sammy was lost, when he was just starting to hunt, and he'd been a part of Dean's and John's lives ever since.

Caleb stepped back and gestured him into the motel room. Dean entered and took a seat at the table under the window.

"Coffee?" Caleb asked, hesitating at the small kitchenette counter with the coffee pot in his hand.

"Please. Where's Bobby?"

"In town doing something or other. I'm not sure. He was acting a little twitchy this morning, and when he gets like that it's better to let him run his course back to normal." Caleb poured him a mug and set in down in front of him, and then sat opposite with a sigh. "I must be getting old. I used to be able to dig all night and be fine, but this morning I feel like I've been on a chain gang," he said.

"Sorry about that," Dean said. "I shouldn't have left you and Bobby to do it. I should have come there straight away."

"Maybe." Caleb nodded thoughtfully and asked, "So, really, how are you doing?"

"I'm…" It was on the tip of his tongue to say he was fine, but he couldn't bring the lie to his lips. He wasn't fine. He was confused and concerned, and he thought maybe Caleb would be able to help him. "I'm not sure what to do," he said.

"About what?"

"Sam," Dean answered. "The kid who was taken last night. He remembers some of what happened, specifically the feeding and decapitation part of it. He's pegged it as vampires, and has at least heard the world hunter. He wants to know more. I don't know what to tell him. I tried faking him out and he wasn't taking it."

Caleb frowned. "So tell him the truth. What's the problem?"

"I don't want him scared for the rest of his life."

Caleb leaned back in his seat and rubbed at his chin. "But he already is, Dean. He saw vampires; they kidnapped him and almost drained him. I think that's about as scary as it can get for a civilian."

"Yeah, but how scared will he be when he knows the rest?"

Caleb rolled his eyes. "I'm not saying you should sit him down with your dad's journal and tell him everything that's out there, but the vampire part, yeah, tell him. There are no rules to follow here. We can do what we like. I think you can give him some peace of mind telling him the truth rather than letting his imagination run wild."

"But he _is_ going to be scared," Dean said.

Caleb raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "He'd be mad not to be."

Dean sighed. He knew his friend was right but it wasn't easy to accept. He didn't know why it mattered so much, but he wanted Sam and Jessica to live their lives free of the supernatural and the fear it engendered.

* * *

Dean thought it was better to get the truth out sooner rather than later, so after finishing his coffee and spending a little more time talking with Caleb, he left for the hospital again.

Throughout the short drive, he mulled over what he was going to say to Sam, how he was going to explain the truth without leaving him more scared than he already must be—though he hadn't seemed it when he'd spoken to him before. He'd seemed incredibly sanguine about the whole thing, but that could be shock. He'd certainly been through enough in the last twenty-four hours to cause that.

He went straight to Sam's room when he reached the hospital and knocked on the door. The voice that bid him enter was not Sam or Jessica, and he realized he'd forgotten Sam's father was going to be there.

Knowing it was too late to turn around and leave, he opened the door and entered the room. Both Sam and Jessica were asleep. Jessica was curled up in a comfortable chair, her hand stretching across the distance to Sam's hand on the bed. In a chair on the other side of the bed was a man Dean realized was Sam's father.

"You must be Dean," he said, standing from his chair and extending a hand. "Sam told me you would be coming back. I'm his father, James Hydeker."

"Dean Aframain," Dean said, shaking his hand. He looked over the bed at Sam and asked, "How's he doing?"

"Better than we have any right to expect," he said. "We were lucky. The blood loss is going to take time to correct, even with the transfusions, but it could have been so much worse. I understand they had a plastic surgeon stitch the wounds so they shouldn't scar badly at all. I think he's just exhausted now more than anything. He has been running on adrenaline for so long and now he's reached his limit of capability."

Dean looked at Sam. He was pale and there were deep shadows under his eyes. Asleep, he looked as sick as he really was. When he'd been quizzing Dean earlier, he'd seemed so much more vital.

Dean glanced between him and his father and thought that, other than the same chestnut hair as Sam, there was no real familial resemblance. His father's features were narrow and sharp whereas Sam's were softer. Dean guessed he took after his mother.

"I suppose lucky devalues your part in it," James said. "I am more grateful than I can say that you found Sam when you did. He means more to me than you can possibly understand. He's everything to me."

"Geez, Dad, way to make it awkward," Sam said drowsily.

Both their eyes moved to him, and Dean saw he was blinking slowly. When he caught sight of Dean, though, he gave a sleepy smile. "You came back."

"Said I would."

"Yeah, but I wasn't sure I believed you."

"Manners, Sam," James scolded lightly, his eyes smiling.

Sam grinned. "Sorry, Dean."

His father nodded his approval. "I will leave you to talk. I need to find myself a hotel. I'll see if The Clement has a room."

"You don't need to stay, Dad," Sam protested weakly. "You've got patients, and I'm fine."

"I'm staying," his father said firmly. "Doctor White is taking care of my cases, and you're more important."

Sam rolled his eyes but Dean thought he was quietly pleased, too.

Jessica woke up then, stretching and yawning. Her eyes went to Sam first, and she smiled. "Hey, baby. How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," Sam said. "Really. How are you? You look exhausted. You should go home and get some proper rest."

She eyed him for a moment and then nodded. "Okay. I do need to shower and change, and I should probably make a few phone calls. People have been texting all night to see how you're doing. I'll be back soon though."

"Okay," Sam said, squeezing her hand. "See you later."

She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek and then straightened and turned to James. "Do you need a ride?"

He nodded. "Yes, please. Sam, rest while we're gone. No venturing out of bed, understand?"

"I understand," Sam said.

James held the door open for Jessica and then he followed her out. For a moment, there was silence in the room but for the beep of Sam's heart monitor, and then Sam eyed Dean with amusement and said, "So, you feeling a little more honest now?"

"Yeah," Dean said heavily. "I guess I am."

Sam hitched himself higher on his pillows and winced as he said, "Vampires?"

"Yeah, vampires."

"They're real?"

"They are."

Even though Sam had already known it, Dean supposed it was still a shock to have it confirmed. He looked stunned as he whispered, "Tell me everything."

Dean drew a deep breath and started, "They're not the movie versions. They can go out in sunlight, though it hurts them like sunburn. Crosses and holy water don't hurt them. They are immortal, but can be killed by decapitation. If you can get the blood of a dead man in their bloodstream, it weakens them—makes them sick."

Sam nodded, absorbing the information and then asked, "How many of them are there? I mean, are we safe? Is Jess safe?"

"That's the good news," Dean said. "They're almost extinct. People like me have hunted them to almost nothing."

"You _are_ a vampire slayer."

"I'm a _hunter_ ," Dean corrected with a laugh. "That's what we call ourselves. There's a few of us spread across the country, hunting them down."

Sam was silent for a long time, gnawing on his bottom lip in worry.

"You really don't need to worry," Dean said. "It was less than a million to one chance of you meeting one, let alone being taken by them. You're safe, Sam."

"What do I do though?" he asked. "There's this whole other world I know about now. How do I go on living normally knowing that they're out there?"

"You do it because you have to. Like I said, you're never going to meet them again. Live your life, Sam, love Jessica, be happy. That's the only way to beat them. If you let this change you, they've won, and you can't let that happen. You have this whole incredible life ahead of you, and you need to live it. Understand?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good," Dean said.

Sam took a breath and looked around the room, possibly to give himself a moment to think, and then he said, "The other guy that was there last night, who was he?"

"That's Bobby. He's a hunter, too. He's been in the life longer than I've been alive."

"I'd like to see him, thank him properly. He saved me, too."

"He did," Dean agreed. "I'll ask if he'll come by. Don't be offended if he won't. Bobby is an ornery old guy and he usually breezes right out of town after the rescue's done."

"But you'll ask him for me?"

"Sure. No problem."

"Thanks, Dean, for everything. You saved my life last night. If there's ever anything I can do for you…" Sam held out a hand to him.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but then an image sprang to his mind and he snapped it shut again. It was Sammy, holding out the prize from the Lucky Charms, only a matter of hours before he was taken. Dean hadn't seen him so clearly in years. The sight brought a lump to his throat. He didn't know why he was seeing it, but he was grateful for it. Sammy suddenly felt alive in his mind again in a way he hadn't for a long time.

"Dean?" Sam prompted. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said in a faraway voice. "I'm fine." And he was fine, happy even, as Sammy was suddenly alive and real in his mind, and though it was almost painful to see him, it was also the most amazing thing. It was so intense, and as he looked up at Sam he found himself seeing Sammy there in his face. He could understand how John had been confused now because there was a similarity—it was in the eyes. If he hadn't known it was impossible, Dean could have believed he'd found his little brother, too.

It _was_ impossible though. Sam was dead. And Dean needed to get out of that room before he let his greatest failure infect the life of another person.

"I'll come back," he said vaguely, and then hurried out of the room, Sam's concerned questions following him.

* * *

 **So… So Sam got some answers and Dean got a glimpse of Sammy. We also met James as a father. What do you think?**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	10. Chapter 9

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for all your work on this chapter. I really appreciate all that you do. Also Gredelina1. You're a sounding board, adviser and best friend. Finally, thank you all that are reading, reviewing, fave'ing and adding the story to your alerts. Each one of them is appreciated.**

 **This chapter is something you've all been waiting for, and I hope you enjoy…**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nine**_

Dean pulled the car to a stop outside the motel and climbed out with a smile. He wasn't thinking of Sammy now, but he was still feeling the buzz of having seen his face clearly again. It was a gift he'd thought he'd lost a long time ago.

He didn't go to his room; instead he knocked on Caleb's door. It didn't open at once, which surprised Dean, as he could hear people moving around and speaking inside. He knocked again, a little louder, and the door was pulled open. Caleb stood on the threshold, his blue eyes bright with amusement at some joke Dean had missed.

"Hey," he said, stepping back and gesturing Dean in.

Dean entered and his eyes fell on Bobby where he stood leaning against the small kitchenette counter. Dean assumed Bobby was the butt of the joke, as his expression was stony as he looked at Caleb.

"You okay?" Dean asked him.

"Fine," he said gruffly not meeting Dean's eye.

Dean frowned and looked from him to Caleb with a brow raised. "What's going on with you two?"

"Nothing is 'going on'," Bobby said firmly. "I'm tired. I was up most of the night digging graves, in case you have forgotten. So I am going to get some more sleep now, if you don't mind, Dean."

It was perfectly delivered, the words and implied guilt, but Dean didn't believe it. Bobby ran for days without sleep on cases and Dean had never known him to need a nap in his life. He just wasn't that kind of man. And there was the fact he'd said it all without looking at Dean, even though he was addressing him.

Dean knew Bobby would dig in his heels and refuse to say a thing if he pushed though, so he nodded and said, "Okay, I'll let you sleep, but I need to ask a favor first. I just saw Sam and he said he'd really like a chance to thank you in person. You up for a trip to the hospital later?"

Bobby's face drained of color and his lips turned down. He quickly corrected his expression into something neutral, but he couldn't restore his color, and Dean knew that whatever was troubling his friend had something to do with Sam.

Immediately worried, he said, "What's wrong with him? What do you know?"

Bobby quickly shook his head. "There's nothing wrong with him. At least I've not heard anything. He's fine."

"Then what is it?" Dean asked.

"Nothing," Bobby said. "I told you I'm just…"

"You're lying to me, Bobby," Dean stated. "What are you hiding?"

Bobby opened his mouth to answer and then hesitated. "I don't know."

"I think you do," Caleb intervened before Dean could push the older hunter any further. "You've been weird ever since I got here, and you were about losing your mind before Dean called last night."

"You were worried about Sam?" Dean asked.

"I was worried about _you_ ," Bobby said. "I saw how attached you were to the kid and I didn't want you hurting if it went bad for him. That's all."

That wasn't all though. Bobby eyes were pleading with Dean to believe and understand, but there was a lie there, too. It was easily discernible as Bobby had never lied to Dean before.

"What's going on?" he asked. "What is it, Bobby?"

Bobby looked stricken, and then he nodded, seeming to be coming to some decision. "It's Sam," he said so quietly Dean had to lean forward to hear him. "He's Sammy. The Sam we rescued last night is your brother."

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and then looked at Bobby. "Why are you saying this?"

"Because I'm right," Bobby said confidently. "I knew as soon as I saw him, just like your daddy did."

"No," Dean said harshly. "My Dad's…" He grappled for the words.

"Having another breakdown?" Bobby suggested. "Not this time, Dean, not really. This time he saw the truth."

It wasn't possible. Sam was dead. The Shtriga had taken him and there was no way that monster would leave him alive. They had known that at once. Bobby had even been the one to make Dean understand all those years ago. Shtriga's were monsters; they took the life-force of children. They were the lowest of all the low things Dean hunted.

"He can't be," he said. "Sammy's dead."

"I thought so too," Bobby agreed. "But I've been thinking half the night. Shtriga's don't kill outright. They take the life force of children and that makes them sick. And if the Shtriga is killed before the children die, that life force is returned. Maybe Sammy was sick. And maybe some other hunter killed the Shtriga and someone found Sammy in time. He could have been saved by someone. It could be possible."

Dean still couldn't make himself believe. It felt wrong. Sammy was dead. He had accepted that when he was eight years old, when he saw his father crying for him night after night. John would never have stopped looking if there was even a chance Sam was alive.

"No," he said. "You're wrong. You've got to be wrong."

"I'm not," Bobby said forcefully. "I _saw_ him."

"Sure, he looks a little like Sammy, that's all."

"You said he had the scar," Bobby said. "Think about it, Dean. What are the odds someone else would have the same name, look so much like him _and_ have that scar?"

Dean's anger rose at Bobby. Why wouldn't he let this go? He couldn't be right, and he knew it, so why was he torturing Dean?

"No!" he shouted. "You're wrong!"

"Why?" Caleb asked, breaking in before Bobby could answer. "If it is Sammy, isn't that a good thing?"

"No," Dean growled. "It's not." It wasn't Sammy; it couldn't be because that would mean Dean had not only failed the night he left him alone in the room, but he had also failed by not finding him. He could not bear another failure.

He turned and made for the door, stopping suddenly and spinning back to face Bobby. "Don't you dare say a word about this to Dad! Understand? If you set him off again, I will never forgive you."

Bobby nodded dourly. "I'll let you tell him yourself."

"I'll never do that," Dean snarled. "He's suffered enough."

He yanked open the door and strode out. As the door swung closed behind him, he heard Bobby say, "He's not the only one."

* * *

As soon as Dean got back into his own motel room, he realized he couldn't stay there, so close to Bobby. He needed space. He left the Impala keys on the table so he wouldn't be tempted to drive drunk, because that was what he needed now, a drink.

He saw Bobby's curtain twitch as he walked past his room on the way to the road, but he didn't come out. Dean was grateful; he didn't want to deal with more of his crap.

He strode off along the street, looking for a suitable bar for his needs. He passed the place he and John had gone to the night they spent hustling and drinking in town as he didn't want the added memories. He went further into the town, coming to a place called Scotty's.

Inside he saw the bar was highly polished and the glasses on the shelves gleamed, but the advertised prices were cheap and Dean thought it would do fine. He ordered a beer and took a stool at the bar, exchanging a bill for the bottle when the bartender came back to him.

The first swig cooled his throat, but it didn't give him the hit and jolt he needed. He needed something stronger for that. He gestured to the bartender again, a smiling woman who looked to be a little older than Dean. "Can I get a whiskey, too?" he asked.

"Sure thing hon." She took a small glass from the shelf and filled it with the amber liquor then slid it across to him.

Dean slugged it back and relished the burn as it hit the back of his throat.

"Bad day?" she asked.

"Bad life," Dean replied.

She clucked her tongue sympathetically. "Want to talk about it?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and she laughed.

"Yeah, I know it's a cliché, but I am a good listener. I might even be able to help."

"I doubt that," Dean said darkly, then added, "No one can help me." He was aware it sounded melodramatic and stupid, but he knew he couldn't be helped by a well-meaning woman in a bar.

"Don't be so sure," she said, pouring him another shot. "This one's on the house. It looks to me like you need it."

"Thanks," Dean said gratefully, taking the shot and downing it followed by a mouthful of beer. He slapped another bill down on the bar and said, "Keep them coming and it'll all be good."

She did as he asked, and over the course of the next hour Dean did something he usually lectured John for doing—got drunk alone. It was only when he tried to find a bill to pay for his next drink that he realized how much he had already had as his store of paper cash was gone. Recognizing defeat, he slid from his stool, waved a hand in farewell to the bartender that had taken such good care of him, and left.

The fresh air outside made his head swim, and he took a moment with a hand on the wall to steady himself before setting out again.

He didn't have a clear idea of where he was going when he started walking, but when he saw the bright lights of the hospital he realized there was nowhere else to go but there or back to the motel. At the motel Bobby would be waiting to push his belief, and at the hospital was Sam, recovering, innocent to the whirlwind of drama his arrival in Dean's life had brought. He would be resting, possibly with Jessica and his father, and the last thing he needed was Dean rolling in stinking of liquor. Dean couldn't go back to the motel and Bobby either though.

He carried on toward the hospital, veering around the parking lot and coming to a row of benches outside the main entrance, positioned between the trees that lined the way. He fell into one and for a moment sat with his head bowed over, and then he straightened and looked around. There were people milling around the entrance smoking, some dressed in street clothes, and others obviously patients. Another bench further along was occupied by a man that had obviously fallen on hard times with his bags spread on the ground around him and his worn out clothes. There was no one close to Dean though, no one to hear him groan a curse as he ran his finger through his hair, no one except the young woman coming along the path toward him.

"Dean?"

Dean looked up and through bleary eyes saw Jessica walking towards him. She looked concerned, and her pace quickened as she came closer and got a good look at him. When she reached him, her hand settled on his shoulder and she asked, "Hey, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Dean said, hating the way his words slurred.

"Are you drunk?"

"Very," Dean said, bobbing his head.

She sat down beside him and moved so she was in his line of sight. "What's happened to you?" she asked gently.

Dean stared into her concerned blue eyes. "Things are all wrong."

"What things?"

"All things. Every damn thing is wrong." He shook his head. "How's Sam?"

"He's okay," she said. "His Dad is with him now."

Dean huffed a laugh at the word.

"What's funny?" she asked.

Dean grimaced. "Nothing. Nothing is funny, which is the tragedy here. There's nothing funny about this situation."

Jessica stared at him for a moment, concern furrowing her brow, and then she asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Dean answered before thinking, "Yes, I think I do." As the words left him though, he realized that he _did_ want to talk. He wanted to talk to someone that would understand the insanity of the situation, someone that wouldn't try to convince him that he was the one that was wrong.

Jessica took her bag from her shoulders and set it on her lap, then she leaned back against the bench and fixed her eyes on Dean.

Dean tried to decide where to start, at the conversation with Bobby or John's delusion that Sam was his lost son. He realized he needed to go further back though. He needed her to understand who Sammy had been before so she could understand what he had lost and what Bobby and John thought they were seeing.

"My little brother, Sammy, got hurt this one time. Actually he got hurt a few times, always seemed to be on my watch, too. But this one time was the one that counts…"

* * *

 _ **Silver City, New Mexico – 1987**_

" _C'mon, Dean, I'm ready," Sammy whined, shifting from foot to foot impatiently._

" _Gimme a minute, Sammy," Dean said, pulling his shoes out from under the bed and then sitting down to pull them on._

 _Sammy was standing by the door with his towel clutched in his hand, his face pinched and annoyed. Dean knew a Sammy Tantrum was coming on soon if he didn't hurry, so he stuffed his feet into his shoes without lacing them, knowing he was just going to shed them as soon as they got outside._

 _Even at the tender age of eight, Dean recognized the treat it was for John to book them into this motel, and how it was going to drain their money faster than usual. The beds were clean and a maid came in each day with fresh towels for them. Not only that, there was also an outdoor area with a pool that they could use whenever they liked. Sammy had about lost his mind with excitement when he'd seen it, and for the past five days they'd spent in town, they had been in there every day. Dean had the hardest time getting him to come out of there for meals._

 _Sammy was extra excited this morning because John was around for the day—making some calls and looking stuff up—so he could show him how good he was getting at the swimming lessons Dean was giving him._

" _Okay," Dean said, standing and grabbing his towel from the bed. "Let's go."_

 _Sammy fumbled with the door handle in his excitement, and Dean grinned as he brushed his hand aside and opened the door. Sammy ran out along the row of rooms and through the arch that led to the pool and patio area. Dean ran after him._

 _He didn't see the risk at first. Sammy was kicking off his shoes and running to the shallow end ready to get in when Dean saw the glinting on the ground. There was broken brown glass on the ground where someone had dropped a beer bottle._

" _Hey, Sammy stop a minute," he called after his brother._

 _It was too late. Sammy skidded and then cried out in shock, arms pin-wheeling as he tried to keep his balance. His feet slipped out from under him and then he was dropping to the ground. His back scraped against the concrete and Dean thought maybe he'd get away with grazes, but then he saw the blood spilling from Sammy's arm._

 _Dean felt a rushing in his ears as he ran towards him. Sammy seemed too shocked to cry. He was sucking in little sharp breaths and he was trembling, but his eyes were dry. Dean's hands clamped down over the spot the blood was spilling from, a wound that went from the back of his hand to below his elbow._

" _It's okay, Sammy," Dean said in a shaky voice. "It's okay. Dad!" The last word was a shout. He didn't know where his father was, he'd said he was running out for something, but to call for him was automatic._

 _Then, magically, John was there. In his hand was a cup of coffee and a paper sack with a donut emblazoned on the side. He dropped them as he took in the scene._

" _Sammy!" he gasped._

 _He rushed to Sammy's side, pushing Dean aside and grabbing the towel from the ground beside him and wrapping it around Sammy's arm. He wound it tight and then pulled Sammy towards him, revealing the second wound Dean hadn't seen on the small of his back. John lifted Sammy against his chest and rushed him away toward their room. Dean stayed kneeling where he had been pushed, staring wide-eyed at the blood that flowed from the place Sammy had lain into the pool which was turning pink._

* * *

 _ **Palo Alto – 2005**_

"I thought nothing could ever be worse than seeing that blood dripping into the pool, but that was before I saw my dad crying for my dead brother," Dean said heavily.

Jessica was watching him with a strange expression. It wasn't pitying; it was more like she was puzzling over some aspect of the story. "What happened to your brother?" she asked.

Dean clasped his hands on his knees and stared off over the parking lot rather look than at Jessica. "He died when I was a kid."

"Yeah, but what happened?"

"Short story, he was kidnapped and killed," Dean said brusquely.

"Long story?" she said tentatively.

"I messed up. I was supposed to be watching him when he was taken, but I stepped out too long and the monster got in. He was just four years old. I never saw him again." He laughed mirthlessly as he said it. He _had_ never seen Sammy again, and he never would, no matter how much Bobby and John argued the opposite.

"How do you know he was killed if you never saw him again?"

"The thing that took him wouldn't let him live," Dean said without thinking. As soon as he realized what he'd said, he rallied and started to cover it but Jessica didn't seem to be listening. She was staring off in the distance with a frown. As he watched she nodded determinedly and looked at him.

"Have you got a picture of Sammy?" she asked.

Dean nodded and rooted in his pocket for his wallet. He lifted back a flap in front of the empty bill compartment and pulled out a very old photograph. It was him with Sammy, sitting on Bobby's couch. It had been taken the winter before Sammy was lost. His thumb caressed Sammy's young, frozen face for a moment and then he handed the photograph to Jessica.

She took it and held it carefully in her fingers. Dean looked from the photograph to Jessica's face and saw she was crying. A tear tracked down her cheek to her hand, and she quickly moved the photograph out of the path of its flow.

Dean's brow furrowed and he shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good with tears, though over the years he had seen so many from victims and his small grieving family.

"What's wrong?" he asked, hoping that he sounded concerned rather that disturbed.

Jessica handed back the photograph without speaking and Dean tucked it back into his wallet automatically. She sniffed and avoided Dean's eye for a moment, then she said, "Dean, that's Sam. Your brother is _my_ Sam."

Dean shook his head. "No. He just looks a little like him, that's all. You're not the first person to think so, but Sammy is dead. It just some kind of twisted coincidence that they have the same name and look similar."

"I wish it was. I don't want this to be true, as it is going to hurt the person I love most in all the world, but that picture _is_ Sam. The scar, the face, the eyes, it's Sam."

"It's a coincidence!" Dean said, anger bleeding into his tone.

She looked startled at his vehemence but she replied equally as firmly. "It's not. Answer me this, the scar on his back, was it distinctive?"

"Yeah," Dean said, "Most scars are though."

"Was it like a star?"

Dean's head swam, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol he had consumed. "How do you know that?"

Jessica's eyes widened. "It was! I knew it. Sam has a scar like that, right in the small of his back." She touched the spot on her own back.

"How…?" Dean started in a weak voice.

Jessica looked impatient. "Because my Sam is yours. He _is_ your brother."

Dean felt his world tilting and teetering on the verge of some precipice. He must have paled or swayed, as Jessica's hand was on his arm, gripping hard, and she was saying, "Take a breath, Dean."

He did as he was instructed and felt his head starting to clear. He was still in shock though. His world had just been completely flipped upside down and it had settled into something he wasn't sure how to navigate. Sammy was alive, and Dean had met him, developed a friendship already even. And that would be just the beginning. John would be told, and he would be changed. He would be the man he had been all those years ago again. He would be healed. They would be a family again.

He laughed shakily. This wasn't a dream come true, as he had never dared dream that this would happen. He had, they _all_ had, been sure that Sam was dead.

After what felt like an eternity, he became aware of more than himself again. He looked at Jessica and saw her face was streaked with tears and her mouth pressed into a thin line as if she was holding back a sob.

"What's wrong?" he asked, aware as he did that his voice was shaky with poorly suppressed glee.

When Jessica looked at him it felt like there was a gulf between them rather than inches through the pain Jessica was obviously feeling. "This is going to hurt him so much," she said mournfully.

"Why?" Dean asked. "We're his family."

"He already has a family, Dean. He has his dad."

Dean honestly hadn't considered that aspect. He was just so happy that Sammy was back; he hadn't thought that he might not feel the same, too. The idea that it was going to hurt him was abhorrent to Dean. He wanted to protect Sam from pain not cause it. But what was the alternative? To lie and never tell Sam what he knew? He couldn't do that. He needed to be able to look Sam in the eye and call him brother. He needed Sam to know him for who he really was.

"That's not his dad though," he said. "Not really."

"He doesn't know that," she said sadly. "Sam tells me _everything_ , and he's never shown the slightest doubt that James is his father. He doesn't know. And he is his dad in every way that will matter to Sam." She frowned. "Why didn't you know he'd been adopted? I know you said he was taken, but surely the police would have realized he was found, too."

Dean squirmed. They had known—believed—Sammy was dead straight away, so the police had never been involved. They couldn't have explained without sharing the news that there was a whole other world the cops hadn't known about.

"They didn't know he'd been taken," he admitted. "We don't live in the same world as you, Jess. We do things differently."

She wiped her hand over her wet face and said, "Is this about what happened to Sam—the things that took him?"

Dean's mouth opened but no words came out.

"Sam doesn't lie to me," she said. "So when he tried, I knew that he was. I don't know exactly what happened, and I am kinda scared to ask, but they weren't people that took him, leaving injuries like that."

He thought she probably did know who and what had taken Sam in her heart, but he understood the fact she didn't want to accept it in her mind. Dean had never been in that position as he had known the truth of the world since early childhood.

"Yeah, it was a part of that world that took him," Dean said.

"A vampire?" she whispered.

"Not that exactly. Something just as evil though."

Jessica looked white in the glare of the streetlights as she nodded.

"Jess, how did you know?" Dean asked. "I mean, it's a hell of a jump from two scars to believing your boyfriend is not who he thinks he is."

Jessica nodded slowly. "I guess it's because I always knew something didn't add up. There are no baby photos of Sam. James says there was a fire when Sam was four, and everything was destroyed, but there isn't even a wallet photo. A father as devoted as James would have carried something with him, surely, especially a photo of his dead wife. It just never made sense to me. It does now. Sam's your brother."

Dean looked up at the hospital with an expression of longing. Sam was in there. His brother, miraculously alive, was within his grasp at last.

"You can't go in there," Jessica said.

Dean's eyes snapped to her. "Why not?"

"Because you may have sobered up, but you still stink of whiskey, and this is a conversation that needs to happen in carefully controlled conditions. It's going to be a lot for him to handle, and he needs to hear it when he's not getting drunk on your fumes."

He knew she was right, but he felt a dragging sensation in his chest, pulling him toward Sam. He needed to see him.

"Wait," she cautioned. "Let me make sure he's okay first. Come back tomorrow and we'll talk to him."

"We?" Dean asked.

"Sure. You don't think I'm going to let you do this alone, do you? I'll help."

"Thanks, Jess. I don't know what to say. Tonight you have given me the most amazing gift."

She smiled a little ruefully. "I just hope Sam feels the same." She patted his knee. "Now, go get cleaned up and sleep. I'll call you tomorrow and we can sort something out."

Dean stood and turned away to make his way back to the motel. Jessica fell into step at his side till they reached the sidewalk, then she took off in the opposite direction. Dean carried on to his motel, feeling more alive than he had in eighteen years.

* * *

 **So… Dean knows. Finally, right? This was a tough scene to write, and I hope I did it justice.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	11. Chapter 10

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for your wonderful job beta'ing this for me. Thank you Gredelina1 for all your help and encouragement.**

 **Thank you all that have read and reviewed so far. You guys have blown me away with the support. I blew past 100 reviews with the last chapter. I appreciate each and every one.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Ten**_

Dean watched Caleb and Bobby crossing the street to the diner the next morning through a crack in the curtain. He hadn't spoken to either of them since he'd gotten back to the motel the night before. Bobby had knocked, but Dean hadn't answered. He didn't want to deal with Bobby yet. He didn't want anything that would mar his feelings about finding Sammy.

He wasn't sure how he felt about Bobby in that moment either. Dean couldn't forget the fact it took a lot of pushing before Bobby admitted that he thought Sam was Sammy. Was he going to keep it secret forever or would he have told Dean in his own time? The fact Dean couldn't know which it was for sure made it hard for him to make sense of how he felt.

He stepped back from the window and turned to look at the room. He had straightened up in preparation for Jessica's visit. She hadn't said much on the phone other than to tell him she was going to come by so they could talk before seeing Sam. He was eager to get this conversation over so he could see Sam again, but at the same time he was nervous of making a false move and messing it all up. He needed to get as much from Jessica as he could before they set out.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Dean rushed to answer it. Jessica was standing on the stoop, two paper cups in her hands. "Morning." Her words were cheery but the shadows under her eyes made Dean sure she had slept no better than he had.

"Hey, Jess," he said, stepping back to allow her entrance.

She came into the room and set down the cups on the table then rooted in her purse for a baggie of Danish pastries. She handed them to Dean and he felt the heat seeping from them through the plastic.

"These are still warm," he said.

She shrugged. "I gave up trying to sleep about three. I spent the rest of the night baking."

Dean nodded. "Better than what I did."

In response to her raised eyebrow, he pushed the cigar box that served as the Winchester family album that he had spent the night studying across the table. She opened it and pulled out a picture of Dean sitting in an armchair with a newborn Sammy on his lap.

"Sam?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's Sammy."

She smiled fondly and set the photograph carefully back into the box then pushed one of the coffees into Dean's hand. "Drink."

Dean obeyed and felt the heat warming him where he hadn't realized he was chilled. He took a pastry from the bag and began to eat, savoring the taste.

"Okay," Jessica said, taking a sip of her own coffee and then setting it aside and looking around the room. "We need to…" She paused as her eyes fell on the far wall and the map that was still tacked up there. "What's that?"

"That's what has shaped my whole life since I was eight years old," he said, standing and walking across the room. Jessica followed. "Ever since Sam was taken, we've been hunting the thing that took him. Every single sign we've found is on there." He pointed to one of the multitude of colored dots. "We have followed every lead, but it's been useless so far because we're pretty sure it hasn't fed since it took Sam."

"Fed?"

Dean tapped another point on the map. "The thing that took Sammy is called a Shtriga. It's a creature that feeds on life forces. It takes that from a person, usually a child, and the child dies."

"It kills children?" She sounded disgusted.

"Yes, but not quickly and mercifully. They drain their immune system until they wither away from something like pneumonia. The parents have to watch their kids suffer and die and know there's not a thing they can do for them. It's brutal."

"Are there many out there?"

"Not many, enough to cause tragedy though. The only blessing is that they only have to feed sparingly many years apart. The one we've been hunting all these years should be feeding now, or need to really soon, so we're more alert for it than ever before."

"How do you watch for something like this?" she asked.

"We have a buddy that tracks news stories for us. We're looking for an outbreak of something like pneumonia in kids somewhere. When we find that, we'll know where to look."

"You've spent all these years knowing what took Sam and you haven't been able to kill it," she said in a wondering tone. "How did you not lose your mind?"

Dean huffed a laugh. "I'm not sure I haven't. My dad, he's taken it harder than me. He changed after we lost our mom, but after Sammy… he broke. For years, he would think he saw Sammy in places we visited, in people we met. He would believe he had found him again, and it would overwhelm him. Then he'd see that it wasn't, and he'd get into these deep fits of depression that I couldn't pull him out of. We would have to stop hunting and go stay with friends for weeks at a time until he got it together again. But he never _really_ got it together, you know?"

"That must have been hard for you."

"Impossible," Dean said. "I was just a kid—eight years old—and my whole world had fallen apart for the second time, and I was suddenly the one that had to keep it all together."

"The second time?"

Dean drew a breath. "We lost our mom to a monster when Sammy was six months old. We've been hunting that all these years, too. My life, pretty much as long as I can remember, has been about revenge and searching."

Jessica laid a hand on his arm and smiled slightly. "You can stop one search now, though. You've found him."

"Yeah," Dean said with a shaky smile. "I have." He wiped a hand over his face and was surprised that it was wet. He brushed his hand off on his jeans leg and sniffed. "So, now you know the Winchester tragedies…"

"I do, and I am very sorry for you," she said. "But we have something good. Sam. We need to see him, but before we do, we need to talk about some stuff."

"Okay," Dean said, walking back to the table and sitting down. He took a drink of his coffee and said, "Tell me what I need to know."

She sat opposite him and said. "First thing, Sam is not going to take this well. Like I said last night, this is going to hurt him. He and James are incredibly close and he trusts him implicitly. Sam doesn't know he was adopted, so this is going to be a massive shock."

"Of course," Dean said. "I get that."

"I don't think you do. You have your dad, and you've been his caretaker, right? Well all Sam's _ever_ had is his father. James is Sam's dad and has been as long as Sam remembers. James made sure Sam had the best opportunities in life; he primed him for success and supported him throughout. One of the things that matters most to Sam is that he make his father proud."

Dean could relate to that. He had spent his early life wanting to make John proud by taking care of Sammy so well. Then, after, he had fixated on doing the best he could in Sammy's memory. He understood what it was to live a life for someone else.

"I know this isn't going to be easy," he said. "I'm not expecting Sam to just remember it all and be my little brother again, but he has to know the truth."

"I agree. And I'm glad you understand. This is going to be hard for you both." She picked up a pastry and absentmindedly began to tear it to pieces on the table. "Another thing, don't try to push him; he'll just push right back. Sam is the most stubborn person I've ever met."

Dean smiled reminiscently. "I remember."

"That's another thing: he's not a child. Sam isn't 'Sammy' now. He's a grown man and not the kid brother you lost."

"I know that," Dean said defensively. "Believe me, I see how he's changed."

Jessica's mouth pressed into a line and she frowned, but she didn't argue, for which Dean was grateful. Maybe he wasn't being honest with himself, maybe he was hoping for the tearful reunion in his most secret heart, but he was trying his best to prepare himself, which was all he could do.

"Anything else?" he asked.

She surveyed him for a moment, staring into his eyes, and then she shook her head. "No, I think I have done all I can. If we're going, we should go."

"Good," Dean said, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could wait.

* * *

Sam had read about people having near-death experiences and being completely changed by them, and he'd always thought it was a little strange. He was happy in himself and his life, and he couldn't imagine why he would want to change it, even if something like that happened to him. But it had happened, and while he didn't want to change his life, he appreciated what he had in it even more now.

He had always known the things he'd had in his life, the opportunities and privileges he'd had access to through his father and hard work, weren't available to all; he'd known how lucky he was. But now it was like someone had peeled back a layer of gauze from his eyes and made him see it all anew. He was one lucky man. He was experiencing an amazing education, he had a father that made him strive to be the best man he could for the world, and he had Jessica: a beautiful, talented, intelligent woman that loved him as he adored her.

He knew just how blessed he was, and he knew how lucky he was to be alive to experience this after what had happened to him.

Had the vampires been hungrier, had they been impatient or cruel, had Dean been a little slower, he might not have made it. He would have left his father grieving a son and Jessica a lover. It was all down to Dean that he had this second chance at life. He just wished he knew a way to repay him for what he had done. How did you even start to thank someone for saving your life? He had to find a way, not only for Dean, but for his friend Bobby, too.

He was resting his eyes and trying to think of a way to show his gratitude when he heard the door click open and Jessica speaking quietly. "Oh, he's sleeping."

"I'm not," Sam said, opening his eyes and smiling at Jessica. His smile grew further when he spotted Dean standing behind her. "Hey."

It looked like it took effort for Dean to return the smile. He looked inordinately stressed, though his eyes were fixed on Sam with intensity that hadn't been there before. Confused by the change in his new friend, Sam asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said quickly. "I'm fine."

Jessica came to the bed and cupped Sam's cheek in her hand and looked at him appraisingly. "How are you feeling, baby?"

"Okay, just a little tired."

"If you're tired, I can come back later," Dean offered, still lurking by the door.

Before Sam could refuse, Jessica spoke sharply. "No, you can't."

Sam raised an eyebrow. Jessica was usually unfailingly polite but she was verging on rudeness with the way she was speaking to him.

"What's going on?" he asked her.

She heaved a sigh, and looking back at Dean, she gestured him in with a wave of the hand and then turned back to Sam. "We need to talk."

Those words had never been followed by a conversation Sam had enjoyed. Whether it be his father sitting him down to discuss a D on a report card or an ex-girlfriend admitting she'd been cheating on him—with his best friend as it turned out.

"What's wrong?" he asked, reaching for Jessica's hand where it lay on the sheet and squeezing it gently. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered. "This isn't about me. It's about you."

Sam frowned. "Me?"

Jessica turned back to Dean where he still stood at the door. "Do you want to start?"

Dean shook his head. "Can you?"

"Of course." Though the words themselves were light, her tone was heavy. "You have to come in though."

Dean seemed reluctant but he stepped away from the door and took a seat beside the bed. Jessica arranged herself more comfortably beside Sam and cupped one of his hands in both of hers.

"First things first, I know what attacked you," she started.

Sam's mouth dropped open and he turned a glare on Dean. "You told her! Why would you do that?"

"He didn't," Jessica said. "I worked it out myself and he just confirmed it, and I don't think he would have done even that if he had been sober."

"Are you scared?" Sam asked her. "Don't be. Dean says there's hardly any left and I know how to deal with them now."

"I'm not scared, Sam," Jessica said with a small smile. "Really, I'm fine. I wouldn't have told you at all, but it's part of the story."

"What story?"

"Mine," Dean said, leaning forward in his seat. "And my family's."

Despite the obvious sadness and discomfort in Dean's face, Sam felt curious. Dean had told them he'd had a brother he'd lost, and Sam had wondered what the story was there. Now it seemed he was going to find out.

He watched Dean for a moment, waiting for him to speak, but Dean merely looked at Jessica with an expression of pleading and she nodded.

"I saw Dean last night, after I left here, and he was a mess. We talked about… well, we talked about a lot of things, but the first was the story of his little brother." Jessica drew a breath. "He was called Sammy, and when he was four years old, and Dean eight, he was taken by a monster."

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. He couldn't imagine how it felt to lose a brother, as he had always been an only child, but he knew how he would feel if he lost his father. Family was special, sacred, and to lose a part of it must have been awful, especially someone so young, and to something as cruel as a vampire.

"It was a creature called a Shtriga," Jessica said, glancing at Dean who nodded. "And it snatched him out of his bed."

"Not a vampire?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head slowly. "There are more than vampires out there, Sam."

Sam thought he should have been told this, but it wasn't the time to point that out when Jessica was sharing a story that was obviously very painful for Dean. He merely nodded his understanding and waited for Jessica to go on.

"All these years, Dean and his dad have believed Sammy was killed outright. But now they know he was left alive after all."

"Wow," Sam gasped. "You mean you've found him? That's incredible."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "We found him."

"Dean, man, I'm so happy for you," Sam said, his face alight with happiness for his friend.

"Thanks," Dean said with a slightly sad smile.

"So what happened?" Sam asked. "How did you find him?"

Sam was expecting Dean to answer, but it was Jessica that spoke again, seemingly at random. "About a month before Sammy was taken, he had an accident. He and Dean were playing and Sammy fell and cut himself on some glass. The injuries weren't so bad, their dad was able to patch him up, but they were bad enough to scar. There was a long cut on his right arm and a smaller wound on his back."

Sam didn't connect the facts with himself. He was still confused about this aspect of the story, why they were sharing it, why Jessica was the one talking about things she hadn't been there for.

"The scars were just like yours," Jessica said, turning his hand and running a finger along the line of the silver scar on his arm. "The one on your back, it looks just like Sammy's—a star."

Sam frowned. "Okay…"

"Baby, you're Dean's brother. You are Sammy," Jessica said.

Sam looked from Jessica's earnest face to Dean's hopeful one and a laugh burst out of him. "You're kidding, right? Of course I'm not his brother."

Dean ducked his head, but before he did, Sam saw his stricken expression.

"Whoa! You're serious?" His mind reeled. On what planet was this even a possibility? Jessica _knew_ Sam; how could she have thought he could have gone all this time without him telling her he was adopted? "You're nuts," he said.

"I saw a picture," Jessica went on. "It was Sammy when he was a kid. It's you, Sam, no question."

"No," Sam said, anger coming to temper his shock now. "It was not me."

"Look at it," Jessica said, holding out a hand to Dean who took his wallet from his pocket and held it out to her. She pulled a small photograph from it and held it out to Sam.

He pushed her hand away roughly. "I don't want to see that. I don't need to."

"Look!" Jessica commanded.

Sam snatched the photo from her hand, screwed it into a ball, and threw it onto the floor. "I am not his brother," he said, gesturing roughly at Dean. "I don't have a brother."

"You can't ignore this," Jessica said. "I know it's a shock, but this is your chance to know who you really are, Sam."

"I _know_ who I am. Sam Hydeker!"

"No, you're Sam Winchester," Dean said, getting to his feet and moving around the bed to pick up the photograph. "I don't know what that _man_ told you but your real dad is John and your mom was Mary. You are my brother."

"I don't have a brother!" Sam shouted, furious, and felt a sick pain on the right side of his neck followed by warmth. He didn't need to touch the spot to know he had ripped stitches and was bleeding again. He felt it trailing down his neck.

"Sam!" Jessica said, panic in her voice.

Sam cupped a hand over the wound. "I don't know what kind of game this is, but it's not cool, Dean." He tried to calm himself but his heart was still pounding in his ears. "I appreciate you saving my life, and I'm sorry you're confused, but I am not anyone's brother!"

"Sammy," Dean said plaintively.

"I'm not Sammy," he said. "Sammy is dead."

Dean's eyes widened and he lurched to his feet. For a second it looked like he was going to say something, but with a burning look at Jessica he strode from the room. Sam was glad. He didn't want to see his heartbroken expression anymore.

* * *

 **So… That went wonderfully. Before you come at me and Sam with pitchforks, remember Sam has only ever known his father and this isn't something you can just accept on someone else's word.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	12. Chapter 11

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fab beta job, and Gredelina1 for all your help and support. Thank you all for reading, supporting, and coming back after the way the last chapter ended. You're all awesome.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eleven**_

Dean slammed the Impala to a halt in the parking spot outside his room and threw open the door. He snatched up the paper wrapped bottle he'd bought from the liquor store and climbed out with it clutched tightly in his hand.

He saw movement behind the gauzy curtain of Bobby and Caleb's room, and he turned his face away. He didn't want to see them, Bobby especially. He fumbled with the key to his room for a moment, his shaking hand making it difficult to maneuver the lock. By the time he had it open, he heard the other door opening and footsteps on the path between the rooms. He didn't look to see which of his friends it was. He just stalked into his room and swung the door back behind him. He heard a slap of a hand on wood as it was caught before it closed.

Sighing, Dean turned and looked into Bobby's annoyed face. "What do you want?" he asked.

"For you to stop acting like a child would be good," Bobby said. "Stomping around and slamming doors, what's gotten into you?"

Dean glared at him but didn't answer.

Bobby looked at the two coffee cups and pile of shredded pastry crumbs still on the table from Jessica's visit and he said, "You've had company."

"Yeah, that's allowed, right?" Dean asked truculently.

Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and stared at him. Dean met his eyes defiantly for a moment then dropped them. "Jessica was here," he said. "Sam's girlfriend."

"Sammy's you mean?" Bobby asked slyly.

"He's just called Sam now," Dean said quietly.

Bobby opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again. The silence between them prolonged and became uncomfortable but neither broke it. Dean felt anger at the whole situation rising up in him: Sam balling up the photograph, his refusal to speak, and his last, unforgivable words—'Sammy is dead'.

He lifted the bottle of whiskey in his hand and lobbed it at the wall. Bobby didn't even flinch as the glass smashed and the room filled with the smell of the spilled liquor.

"Do you feel better?" Bobby asked curiously.

"No," Dean snapped. The only thing he had done was deny himself the drink he so desperately needed.

Bobby moved across the room and opened a window. The warm air flowed in, diluting the scent of liquor. Dean stared at him as he took a seat at the table and fixed his eyes on the chair opposite. The invitation was clear—'Sit, let's talk'—but Dean didn't want to accept it. Instead, he sat on the bed and looked down at his hands clasped in his lap.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" he asked.

Bobby needed no further explanation. "Yes, I would have told you about Sammy. I just wasn't sure how to handle it. I needed time to think. He wasn't going anywhere, and I needed to know you were ready."

"Ready to know my brother was alive? I've been ready to know that for eighteen years!"

"No, you haven't," he argued. "You were handling it. You were the strong one, and I knew you could hold out a little longer in ignorance. John was the one who couldn't handle what happened."

Dean scoffed. "You think I was handling it? Bobby, he was my baby brother, and I was the one that let him be taken. There is no way to handle that. I was dealing because I had no choice! Dad needed me to be strong."

"Exactly. While John was struggling and you were managing for him, I could work out what best to do."

"What else was there to do but tell us?"

"There was preparing you to know. If your daddy knew, what do you think he would have done? I'm guessing you haven't told him, since he's not here already. If he was to know, if you'd told him, he'd bang down Sam's hospital room door and destroy any chance you had at building anything with him."

Dean shook his head dolefully. "It's a bit late for that." It was basically what he had done himself. He hadn't kicked down the door, but he had bombarded Sam with information and made him mad enough to hurt himself.

"Dammit, Dean," Bobby sighed.

"I screwed it up," Dean admitted. "I thought I knew what I was doing. I'd talked it all through with Jessica first, and she did most of the talking, so I thought he'd take it better, but it was a mess. He kicked me out and said some stuff that… Well, it cut real deep. He didn't believe me."

"Are you surprised?" Bobby asked. "Even you didn't want to believe, and for you it's about the best news you could have gotten."

Dean sighed and the dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Aw, man, I don't know what to do." He looked up, hoping Bobby would have some advice or wisdom to share, but the man was poking at the pile of crumbs and avoiding his eye. "What do I do, Bobby?" he asked.

Bobby looked at him and there was such pity in his expression that Dean turned away. "I don't know," he said. "I wish I had the answers, Dean, I truly do, but I don't know this kid anymore. I don't know whether trying again would help or drive him away further. Like you said, he's not Sammy; he's Sam now. He's a man."

Dean bit back a groan.

"What about this girlfriend of his?" Bobby asked. "She's got to know him better than anyone. What did she say?"

"She told me not to push," Dean said. "She said Sam's stubborn."

Bobby laughed softly. "I remember."

"What does that mean though?" Dean asked. "Does not pushing mean I have to stop? Do I give up on him now?"

"No, never give up," Bobby said firmly. "Maybe give him his space though."

"And if that's not enough? What if he doesn't come to me at all?"

"I don't know," Bobby said. "I guess you hope he's still Sammy enough to be curious."

* * *

Dean cleaned up the glass and washed the whiskey off the wall as best he could with the thin motel towel. Bobby went back to his room to finish up with Caleb and pack up his stuff. He was going to head back to Sioux Falls. Dean was going to join John in Blue Earth, but first he wanted to speak to Jessica. He'd sent her a text message, asking if she would come by the motel, as he was sure him going by the hospital again was a bad idea.

He was packed up and ready, the map rolled in the trunk, when he heard the knock at the door. He hurried to answer and let Jessica in. She looked around the room as she entered and sat at the table, her eyes falling on the place the map had been pinned to the wall. "You're leaving?"

"I think it's for the best," Dean said, sitting opposite her. "Don't you?" Part of him hoped she'd argue, tell him that Sam needed him to stay, that Sam _wanted_ him to stay even. She didn't.

"I do. You staying here right now is only going to hurt you both. Sam has told the hospital he doesn't want to see you again, so they're not going to let you in if you come."

Dean swallowed down the surge of emotion the news brought and asked, "How is he?"

"He popped his stitches and lost a little more blood, but they've stitched him up again, and they say he'll be okay. He just needs rest and peace."

"Okay," Dean said. "I'll do my bit. I'm heading to Minnesota to meet up with my dad, so I'll be out of the way."

Jessica looked mournful. "I am so sorry, Dean. I pushed him too hard. I knew he wouldn't take the news well, but I got caught up in your side of it, and I forgot for a moment that this was Sam's life I was turning upside down. It's just that I could tell how much it meant to you, how much you needed it, and I wanted it to work out."

"I pushed, too," Dean said. "Like you say, I needed it. I screwed up. I ruined it all."

"It's not ruined yet," Jessica said. At Dean's hopeful look she went on. "I'm not promising it's going to be easy, but I know it's not over yet."

She pushed her hair back from her face. Dean saw it was limp and needed shampooing. Combined with her shadowed eyes and pale skin, it made Dean see just how much of a toll this whole thing had taken on her. He'd been so preoccupied with how it was affecting Sam and him that he hadn't considered Jessica's part in it all.

"Sam is always curious," she said. "The reason he does so well in school is that if a subject triggers his interest, he will research it to death. He will devour facts and figures and information until he knows all he can find out. He will not be able to let this story lie. At some point, I'm sure, he's going to start digging. If there's something to find, he'll find it."

"What does that mean for us, though?" Dean asked. "There's no information about Sammy being lost out there. How is that going to help?"

" _Because_ there's nothing out there," she said cryptically. "Sam will have to go to the one other source of information he has: me. Once I get him talking, I can make him stop and consider it, I'm sure. I'll need some proof, too. Can I have a photo of him? And I'll need more facts than I have so far. I need to know anything you can think of that will help me make him stop and consider it could be real."

"You really think he will?" Dean asked, hopefully.

She nodded. "I said before that Sam loves his father. He does. They've been everything to each other for most of Sam's life. He shapes himself on him. But Sam loves me, too. He'll listen to me."

Dean exhaled a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair. "This is a lot, Jess. You're putting it all out there for me. What if it backfires on us? I don't want to ruin things for you."

She smiled sadly. "You've never been in love before, have you, Dean?"

He shook his head. "No. Never."

"Then you wouldn't understand. Sam won't stop loving me for this."

"Okay," Dean said. "I'm in. I'll tell you what you need to know, and I'll be patient. I'll give him his space until if and when he's ready to see me again."

"Good. It's going to be tough for you, Dean, I know, but you have to be patient, okay? You have to trust me to take care of him for a while."

"I will. I do," Dean said. "I trust no one more when it comes to Sam now."

She nodded decisively and pulled a notepad and pen from her purse. "Okay, in that case, tell me everything…"

* * *

Dean arrived in Blue Earth three days after he left California. He was exhausted by the time he pulled up outside Jim's small house behind the church, but he knew he wasn't going to be able to rest for a while. John would need his time first.

When he opened the car door he heard a thwack, a dull thudding sound and a muffled curse. Smiling in spite of himself, he wandered around to the back of the house and came to a stop with his arms crossed over his chest.

John was facing away from him, an ax in his hand and an almost empty basket of split wood beside the block. As Dean watched, he picked up another piece of wood and set it in place. He hefted the ax and swung it down, missing the wood and thunking it into the block. He cursed again and wrestled the ax free.

"You're holding it all wrong," Dean said.

John spun to face him, and his face split into a wide smile. "Dean."

"Hey, Dad."

Dean hadn't called ahead to say he was on his way, as he didn't want John unsettled by days of waiting for him to arrive. Also, he wanted this moment, the surprise and pleasure in John's face. He wanted to please his father while he could—before he tore his world apart, again.

John dropped the ax and walked towards Dean. His arms opened and he pulled Dean into them. They embraced for a moment and then John pulled back, his hands on Dean's shoulders. "I didn't know you were coming," he said. "Why didn't you call?"

Dean shrugged. "No reason."

John released him. "The vamps done with?"

"Yeah. Me and Bobby got them all."

John nodded and smiled again. "Good. Now, what were you saying about me doing it wrong?"

Dean took a moment to take in his father's appearance. His eyes were lightly shadowed, but they wore none of the clouded look of confusion. He was doing better. Dean was going to have to tear that apart. He hated himself in that moment.

"You're holding the ax too high on the handle," he said, walking forward and picking it up from the ground. "You've got all the power but not the control." It was a good analogy of their life. John had all the power but he couldn't control it the way he had before Sam. He felt everything so completely nowadays. Dean was the opposite. He had control but he knew he wasn't half the hunter his father was.

"Show me how it's done then," John said, his smile taking any heat from the words.

Dean positioned his hands on the ax and lifted it high, then brought it down at the center of the piece of wood which split perfectly down the middle. The pieces fell and Dean bent to pick them up and place them into the basket.

"You're good," John said appreciatively.

"No surprise there. You and Jim had me out here chopping wood as soon as I got strong enough to handle the ax."

"I guess we did," John said, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Well, you were just so good at it."

That wasn't entirely true. It had been Jim more than John that had sent him out for stove wood, and that had been to give him a little space from his father when he was struggling. Jim had realized Dean needed to vent his frustrations sometimes and chopping wood was a healthier outlet than others he could have chosen.

John picked up a new piece of wood and set it on the block for Dean. "Don't stop now. You're doing so well."

"Actually, Dad, we need to talk."

John immediately became concerned. "Are you okay? Did the vampires hurt you?"

"No, they didn't get me at all," Dean said. "Come sit." He walked toward the bench Jim had under a gazebo of creeping flowers and sat down.

John sat beside him, slightly angled so he could look at Dean. "What's wrong, Son?"

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and said, "I need to tell you something, and I need you to let me finish before you do anything, okay?"

"Okay," John said slowly. "You're worrying me, Dean. Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"I'm fine," Dean lied. He wasn't hurt but he wasn't fine either. "It's about Sammy."

John looked worried. "What about him?"

"He's alive. I found him."

"Alive?" John asked, reaching over and gripping Dean's arm hard enough to hurt. "Sammy's alive?" His face transformed. His lips curved into a huge smile and his eyes lit up in a way Dean hadn't seen in years. "Really?"

"Yeah, Dad," Dean said with a smile.

"Alive," John said again in an awed voice. "My son?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I've seen him. I've spoken to him."

"The kid in the bar," John whispered, his face paling.

Dean nodded. "You were right this time. It was Sammy."

John made to stand but Dean held a hand on his arm. "You said you'd let me finish."

It looked like it took great effort, but John sat down again and fixed Dean with a penetrating stare. It was as if he was trying to pluck the information from Dean's mind with concentration alone. "Tell me everything." His tone was pleading.

"He was the witness, like I told you, and he was the kid the vampires took. He's okay," he rushed on, seeing John's panic. "He just got a couple bites that are healing. He's probably out of the hospital already."

"Why don't you know?" John asked.

"Because things went wrong," Dean answered regretfully. "When I found out who he really was, we, me and his girlfriend, told him. He didn't take it well, Dad. He didn't believe us. He sent me away and won't see me again."

John's face twisted with desperation. "He has to! We have to see him, to talk to him. He has to know who he is."

"He doesn't want to hear it yet. He knows who he is now, and that's what matters to him."

"But he's my boy. He's our Sammy."

Dean felt tears welling in his eyes. "He's someone else's Sammy right now. We have to wait."

"I can't," John growled.

"We have to. This isn't about us. It's about Sam." He took a breath. "Listen to me. He's happy without us at the moment. He has an amazing life, a girlfriend, friends… a father."

John flinched.

"I know, Dad, I know it hurts. But we have to do what's best for Sam. His girlfriend is confident he'll come to us when he's ready, so we have to wait for him to be ready."

John's eyes filled with tears, but he gave a determined nod. "I can do that. For him, I can do anything."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. If John was doing it for Sam, he would stick to it.

"He has a good life?" John asked.

"An amazing one."

"Tell me about him," he said, his voice eager despite the tears falling down his cheeks. "Tell me about my son."

Dean swallowed hard against the sob that was building in his throat. "His girlfriend is called Jessica, and she's awesome. He does really well in college. He's kind and friendly. He's… Dad!"

John had bowed over and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook with sobs and Dean could hear his moans of pain. Tears streaking his own face, he gripped his father's shoulder and said, "He's happy, Dad. You have to think of that. He's happy like we always wanted him to be."

"I know," John moaned, raising a tear-painted face to look at Dean. "He's happy, and kind and all those things, and we didn't see it happen. We missed all these years that made him this man, and he doesn't know us. I lost my baby boy and now he's a man, and I missed it. I will never hold my child again. I will never hear him called me daddy. He will never be Sammy again, and that hurts me so damn much."

Dean swiped a hand over his wet face, only for it to wet again almost instantly.

"Don't you see, Dean?" John asked. "Sam may be alive, but Sammy is dead." He bowed over again and a keening cry ripped from him.

Dean felt his father's pain like it was his own, because in a way it was. John had lost his boy and Dean had lost his brother. No matter what future there was for them now, what relationship they could built, it would never be the same.

Because Sammy _was_ dead.

* * *

 **So… That was quite the punch in the feels, right? It was a tough write. I want Sam back with John and Dean as much as I am sure you all do, but the story would only allow itself to be told one way.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	13. Chapter 12

**Thanks so much for beta'ing Jenjoremy, Gredlina1 for helping outline and encouraging, and you all for reading and reviewing the story. I love hearing from you all xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twelve**_

Sam was sitting on the chair beside his hospital bed, watching as Jessica came out of the small bathroom with his wash kit in her hand.

"Anything else?" she asked brightly, putting the kit into Sam's gym bag and hesitating with her hand on the zip.

"Nope. I packed light," Sam joked.

She grinned. "That'd be a first."

She zipped it closed and took one last look around the room for anything she might have missed in her packing. Seeing nothing, she came and perched on the edge of Sam's chair, leaning against him. Sam smiled to himself.

"Ready to go home?" she asked.

"More than ready," Sam said. He didn't have a problem with hospitals the way some people did—growing up with a doctor as a father meant they were once his playgrounds—but he was still ready to be back in his own space with the woman he loved in the bed beside him. He had missed her presence so much in the last week.

James swept into the room, a clipboard in his hands.

"Am I good to go?" Sam asked him.

"Yes," he said. "I've taken care of the insurance paperwork, so you just need to sign a couple forms and you'll be free." He held out the clipboard. Sam took it and detached the pen then signed each place his father directed him to.

"Thanks, Dad," he said idly.

James smiled down at him. "Let's get you home so you can rest."

"Yeah, because I've been partying hard the whole time I have been here," Sam said with a grin.

"You've read my article on this, Sam," James said. "Environment is as important as treatment in trauma recovery."

"I have," Sam agreed. "And you're right. I will feel better at home."

He didn't feel traumatized though. He was still kind of shocked about the whole idea of the world being bigger than he had ever imagined, and he worried for the people in it with the new slew of monsters that could kill and hurt, but being taken by vampires didn't seem so big compared to what it could have been: he could have been Dean. Sam had almost recovered physically, and mentally he was okay. Dean would never recover from the loss he had sustained—his baby brother. Just because it wasn't Sam, it didn't mean he didn't care that Dean was suffering.

Jessica stood and Sam eased himself up beside her. He was pleased that he felt stronger than he had in the early days of his recovery; he didn't need assistance anymore. Jessica's hand crept into his and James picked up Sam's bag from the bed.

Sam's doctor was waiting for them in the hall. He took the clipboard James proffered and nodded as he checked the signatures. "All good here. Sam, you will need to take it easy and only return to your regular activities when you feel strong enough. An appointment will be arranged for you to come in and have your wounds checked, but in the meantime keep them clean and covered."

"I will. Thanks for everything." He held out his free hand and the doctor shook it before turning away to address a passing nurse.

When they got out to the car, James opened the door for Sam and then took the driver's side. Jessica slid into the back and they set off.

It was a short drive between the hospital and their apartment and Sam spent it looking out the window at the familiar sights in the town he called home. As they passed El Camino Park, he saw students spread out over the grass with text books and binders in front of them, study for finals in full swing. He should be one of them. He would at least have plenty time to study at home while he finished recovering.

James pulled them to a stop in front of their building and Sam climbed out. He followed Jessica up the stairs to their apartment and waited for her to unlock the door. The familiar scent of baking met him, combined with Jessica's perfume and the indefinable scent that was all home to him.

"Ah, Jessica, you've been busy," James said appreciatively.

"Yeah, couldn't really sleep, so I baked," she replied, she turned back to address Sam. "You hungry? I'll start dinner."

"I'll fix something," Sam said. Jessica was a gifted baker but not cook. Unless Sam wanted cherry pie for dinner, he was going to be eating sandwiches.

"No need," James said quickly. "I will go to Italico and bring something back for us."

"That sounds great," Sam said, squeezing Jessica's hand. "Don't worry about dessert though. It smells like Jess has that covered.

James nodded and disappeared along the hall.

"Nice save," Jessica said. "You know, I'm not an _awful_ cook. I could have made something for us."

"Jess, you're an amazing woman, baker, and lover, but cooking is not where you shine. Besides, you have to leave some skills for me to have."

Jessica laughed. "Sure. I'll make sure to do that." She raised her face to his for a kiss and Sam tilted his head down to meet her. Her lips pressed against his and then she pulled back. "Are you okay, Sam? Really?"

"I am," Sam said honestly. "I'm not too sore now. I'm home. You and Dad are here. Things are good."

"And you and me?" she asked, biting her lip. "We're okay, too, right?"

He knew what she was referring to. It was the first time either of them had alluded to her collusion with Dean and attempt to make him believe his life was a lie. Sam didn't blame her for that, though. No more than he blamed Dean. It wasn't his fault he was mistaken, and it wasn't Jessica's fault that she had been caught up in his story.

"Always," Sam promised. "Nothing is ever going to happen to change that.

James came back a little later, laden with Italian takeout food, and they all settled at the table for a good meal. Sam hadn't realized how hungry he was until the plate was in front of him, and for a while they ate in companionable silence. He was mopping up the last of his sauce with garlic bread when his father spoke up. "What happened to the man that saved you, Sam? Dean wasn't it? I thought I'd see him again."

Sam picked up his glass of water and took a sip to give him a moment to think before answering.

Jessica spoke before he had decided what to say though. "He had to leave town."

Sam realized that having that information meant Jessica had spoken to Dean after Sam had ordered him out of the hospital room. He supposed it made sense, and he was glad he was gone now, but he felt a twinge of something indefinable in response.

James' eyebrows rose. "Oh, really?"

Sam felt Jessica's eyes on him, but he didn't meet her gaze as he answered his father, "Yes. He had a family emergency."

"That is a shame. I had hoped to have a chance to speak with him again. I thought you were going to invite him for dinner."

"We were, but like I said, he had an emergency and had to go in a hurry. He knew how grateful we were, though, for what he did for me."

"I hope so," James replied.

"He knew," Jessica said. "I made sure of that."

"Good," James said. "He seemed like a good man."

"He was," Sam said sincerely. "But his family needed him."

James eyed him for a moment and then returned his attention to his meal. Sam picked up another piece of garlic bread, but when he took a bite, he found it tasted like ashes in his mouth.

* * *

Sam wasn't Dean's brother, he knew that, but the story of Sammy Winchester took root in his mind and he found himself thinking of him when his mind wasn't otherwise occupied, and sometimes even when it was. He would be speaking to Jessica about something banal like paying utilities and he would find his mind wandering to the child that had been taken so tragically that it led Dean to lose his wits enough to believe it could be Sam.

A few days after Sam was released from the hospital, James went home to Oregon and Jessica went back to classes, leaving Sam alone for long chunks of the day. His friends came by and saw him in the evenings, but the days were his alone. He found himself thinking of Dean's story more and more.

On the fourth day, Sam realized he was going to have to do something about it, and so he did what he had sworn to himself he wouldn't do—he set himself up at the laptop and started to look into Sammy Winchester's story. The problem he faced almost at once was that there was hardly anything to find. He knew Sammy had been taken when he was just four, and he assumed he was at least close to his age for Dean to think he could be him, so he searched the name and dates surrounding. There was nothing. Not a single result for the name. Confused, Sam broadened his search terms—removing the dates. Again, there was nothing that was relevant. He figured the abduction of such a young child would have made news, but he couldn't find anything.

He was confused and questioning the whole story when it occurred to him that he might be searching the wrong name. Dean had been introduced as Dean Aframian, but he was apparently called Winchester really. Perhaps Sammy had been living under a different name at the time. He tried just Sammy and the dates, and found some results but nothing that seemed to really match. He wasn't tech-savvy enough to dig deeper, he knew, and for a while he considered enlisting Brady to help, but if he did that, Jessica was sure to find out, and she'd believe Sam was questioning his certainty, so he decided against it.

He had a suspicion Jessica was in contact with Dean still, and if she thought there was a chance there was any doubt in Sam's mind, it would make its way back to Dean, and that wouldn't be fair to him.

His anger at Dean had passed and morphed into pity. He was grieving and that made him see things in pure coincidence that weren't real. To think Sam was maybe coming around to his idea was going to hurt him, and Sam didn't want to do that. He had liked Dean a lot.

As much as the questions niggled Sam, he was going to have to let them go unanswered. That was the only way to protect Dean from his own delusion.

* * *

Dean's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright in his bed. He wasn't sure immediately what had woken him, the house seemed quiet, but then John's voice ripped through the air. "Sammy! No, come back! Sammy!"

Dean threw back the bedclothes and swung his legs around the edge of the bed then stood and hurried into the hall. The door to John's room was firmly closed—a barrier between him and the world—but Dean knew he probably wouldn't remember in the morning anyway, so he felt no compunction about opening it and going inside.

John was lying on his back, his face sheened with sweat and his hands balled into fists on the patchwork quilt. As Dean stood in the doorway, tired, desperate, and hating that this was happening again, John's mouth opened and Sammy's name ripped from him again.

Dean heard the bedsprings creaking in Jim's room and he knew he had to act fast to calm John before Jim came out to investigate, too. He entered the room and closed the door behind him then moved to the side of the bed. He gripped his father's shoulder just as he drew a breath for another shout and shook him hard. "Dad!" he hissed. "Wake up!"

John's eyes opened, unfocused and still lost in the dream, but Dean had at least stopped him before he cried out again. "Sammy?" he asked.

"No, Dad, it's me, Dean."

John blinked blearily. "Dean? What are you doing in here?"

"You were having a nightmare."

"Not a nightmare," John said vaguely. "I saw Sammy."

"Okay, whatever, Dad," Dean said tiredly. "You need to settle down though. You're going to disturb Jim." Though Dean was pretty sure he had already. "Just go back to sleep. We can talk about it in the morning."

John rolled onto his side and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape, then settled against it and closed his eyes. His breaths became steady mercifully quickly, as he hadn't truly been woken, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He moved back from the bed and sat down in the easy chair on the opposite side of the room. He would stay awhile, hope that John remained resting quietly, and then would try to get some more sleep in his own bed.

He understood how it felt to have nightmares, but he was pretty sure his were quiet ones, as no one ever mentioned them. His nights were haunted by Sammy, too. He would hear him crying out for him the way he had all those years ago when he had been taken. It would go further. He would see a faceless monster carrying him away and Sammy reaching for him. He would wake panting on a tear-damp pillow, memories of his greatest failure haunting him. And it was a failure. Just because Sam hadn't been killed as they'd believed all these years—he'd apparently been rescued and adopted by a good man—he was lost to them.

* * *

Dean staggered into the kitchen the next morning, his neck aching from falling asleep in the chair. He went to the coffee pot and sighed as he saw it was empty and clean from the night before. He filled it with water and scooped the coffee into the chamber then flicked it on. He stood with his head bowed, staring out the window at the neat yard. Jim put a lot of work into his garden, and he had a parishioner that helped. Dean wondered how it felt to have time and energy to do something so pointless in the greater scheme of things. He felt swamped by troubles now and had for a long time. If it wasn't his family's suffering bringing him down, it was the world's.

"Sit down, Dean. I'll get you coffee," Jim said behind him, making him start. His exhaustion had dulled his senses so much he hadn't heard him coming into the room.

He turned and saw Jim looked weary. John had obviously disturbed his night, too.

"It's okay," he said. "I'll get it. You sit down.

Jim nodded and sat at the table, steepling his fingers under his chin.

When the coffee machine burbled its last, Dean poured two mugs and carried them to the table. He sat and took a sip of his own. It warmed his throat, immediately making him feel more awake. He set it down and rubbed a hand over his face.

"It was a bad night," Jim stated.

"It's been worse," Dean replied. "Sorry if we disturbed you."

Jim shook his head. "You know I don't mind. Besides, I slept again soon after. I don't think you can say the same."

"I slept enough."

Jim raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Instead, he said, "I wonder if it's time to get outside help for him."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did Dean laughed. "You know that's not going to happen. Dad will barely talk to me about it; he won't talk to a stranger. And what would he even say? He can't tell anyone the real story, as they'll want to know why we didn't know Sammy was alive when he was found. We wrote him off as dead and fled town soon after, thinking he was gone, when really he was found and taken in by some stranger and raised to not remember us!" His hands fisted on the tabletop. He was so damn angry at the whole situation. Had they gone to the cops, they would have known when Sammy was found. They could have had him back.

"I know, but he could tell them some," Jim said."His nightmares are so much worse now than I have ever known them."

"I don't have nightmares," a voice behind Dean spoke, making him start again.

He turned quickly and saw John standing in the dimly lit hall. He came into the room and took a seat beside Dean. He was a wreck. His red-rimmed eyes were ringed with dark shadows. His shoulders were slumped and when he laid his hands on the tabletop, Dean saw they were shaking slightly.

Dean looked away from him and said, "You do though, Dad, every night since I got here."

"They're not nightmares," John argued. "They're memories."

"Memories make you cry out like that?" Jim asked.

"Memories of my boy do." He drew a heaving breath. "I see Sammy all the time now. Things he did, things he said, and they're the most incredible gift."

"Then why do you sound like you're dying when you have them?" Dean asked quietly.

"Because they end," he replied. "I run out of memories, and he's gone, and that makes me feel like I _am_ dying. I only had him for a handful of years and there are just not enough memories there, because I squandered those years. I spent my time saving other people's families and not protecting my own."

"Dad…" Dean said miserably. "It wasn't like that."

"Yes, it was," John said firmly. "I ruined it all. I lost my son, and now he's out there somewhere, and _I_ _can't see him_." His voice was wrecked. "I just want to see him. That's all."

Dean swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and he grappled for words to comfort.

"Would you be able to stop though?" Jim asked. "If you were to see Sammy again, Sam, would you ever be able to look away? Wouldn't you be compelled to go to him? To speak to him and hear his voice?"

The questions seemed to hit John like barbs; he flinched at each one. "I need to see him," He said mournfully.

"And yet you haven't," Jim said. "You know where to find him, you have for a while now, and yet you're still here, which makes me sure you understand what Dean told us. Sam needs space and time. Barging into his life is going to do nothing but harm you both."

"I know," John growled. "I am giving him his space, but it's making me lose my mind. I have been without him so long, and every day was hard, but now it's impossible. He's all I can think about."

"Then we need to start hunting again," Dean said, realizing as the words left him that they were true. His father needed a distraction, they both did.

John looked incredulous. "You think I can focus on saving other people right now?"

"No, perhaps not," Jim answered thoughtfully. "You need to save yourselves. You have coped all these years by searching for the things that tore your family apart—the Shtriga and the thing that started it all by taking Mary. You need to return to that hunt. Avenge the harm of the years that are destroying you."

Dean was surprised he hadn't thought of it himself when he was fighting to find a way to distract his father from his pain. It was the answer for them both, though. They needed to be busy, and they needed to kill the monsters that had destroyed their lives.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "This is it, Dad. We kill the Shtriga, find what killed Mom, and then when Sam comes to us, when he's ready, we'll be able to tell him all about it."

Only one part of Dean's words seemed to have sunk in. "When he comes to us?" he said hopefully.

"Yes," Dean said. "When he's ready, however long that takes, we will be ready to tell him we have avenged him."

A light seemed to ignite in John's eyes, a light that Dean had recently thought was permanently extinguished. "Yes," he said. "We'll do it. For Mary and Sammy, we'll find the monsters and make them pay."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't sure it would work during the night-time hours, when memories haunted John, but they at least had something for his days to distract him now. It was something, when they had nothing.

* * *

 **So… Sam is looking and Dean and John have a plan. Things are happening.**

 **Until next time...**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	14. Chapter 13

**Thank you Jenjoremy for beta'ing, Gredelina1 for helping outline, and you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story. You're all awesome.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Thirteen**_

Sam hit speed-dial as he walked out of the hospital and waited for the call to connect. He smiled as his father's formal voice spoke, "Doctor James Hydeker."

"Hey, Dad, it's me."

"Sam," his tone immediately softened and became more amiable. "How are you?"

"I'm good," Sam said. "I just got out of my check-up at the hospital. According to the doctor, the wounds are looking good, the redness should fade soon and there's no real scar tissue visible." Sam was pleased about that. He wasn't vain, but he thought it would be easier to present the right image in court if he didn't look like he'd had his neck chomped on.

"That is wonderful news." Though his words were ebullient, James' voice wasn't. He sounded tired and sad.

"Are you okay, Dad?" Sam asked.

"Me? Of course."

Sam came to a stop beside one of the benches that lined the walkway and leaned against it. "You sure? You sound like you're having a hard time. Are you ill?"

"No," James said too quickly for it to be believable. There was a muffled voice in the background and when James came back he sounded professional again. "I need to go, Son. I will speak to you soon."

"Oh. Okay. Call me when you can."

"I will. Goodbye."

Sam was accustomed to abrupt farewells from his dad. It was the nature of having a doctor for a father. He tucked the phone back in his pocket and carried on along toward the car park.

As he passed one of the benches, he saw a man sitting on it with a sleeping bag laying at his feet with a few coins and a couple of small bills on it.

"Hey, kid, you got any change?" he asked.

Sam came to a stop and pulled out his wallet. He took the two twenties he had in there and handed them to the man who took them with a surprised but grateful smile.

"Thanks, kid. You have a good day."

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to return the sentiment but he caught himself in time. What kind of day could a man have when his hard times were obviously so bad? Sam never took the life he had for granted, he was aware of how lucky he was to just be alive, but had the man not hailed him, Sam might not have even noticed him. Something as simple as a few bucks that wouldn't have bought him and Jessica a meal in a halfway decent restaurant made a real difference to that man, and he might not have stopped.

"Thank you," he said and waved a hand in farewell as he walked to his car.

As he unlocked the door to his Ford, he pondered what he had seen and what he could do about it. Perhaps he could get Jessica involved. She might have an idea of how they could help the homeless man and people like him. It seemed to him that he and his friends had so much and they gave so little back. Maybe there was a way to help the homeless without just throwing their parents' money at them. Maybe there was something _they_ could do. It seemed to him that Dean and people like him—hunters—were out there risking everything to save other people, and Sam was just living his insular, privileged life as a student. It wasn't right.

The streets were quieter than usual, as the summer break had started and most people had left the dorms to go home. Only people like Sam and Jess that had off-campus homes would be around now. When Sam pulled to a stop outside his building he saw Bea and Mark, his pre-med neighbors, were loading their car with bags.

"Sam, how are you doing?" Bea asked as Sam climbed out of the car.

"All good," Sam said. "You?"

"Great," Bea said. "We're heading to Mark's parents' place for a couple weeks. What about you? Are you and Jess heading home anytime soon?"

"Not sure yet," Sam replied, though the idea of spending some time with his father at the lake sounded good. "We haven't really spoken about it."

"Well, get to it," Mark said affably.

"I will. You have a good break," Sam said.

They exchanged farewells and he continued on inside and up the stairs to his apartment. He unlocked the door and set his keys down in the dish before going into the lounge. Jessica was stretched out on the couch. There was a book open on her chest, and she was sleeping.

Sam slipped past her and went to the kitchen where his laptop was set up on the table. He booted it up and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge before sitting down and opening a search engine. He typed in the query, _'how to help the homeless'_ and waited for the results to load. The first were all pleas for donations from homeless charities. Sam would do that, and he would badger his friends into doing the same, but he wanted something more, something _he_ himself could do. As he scrolled down the page, he saw a result from a charity that had a list of ideas for other donations—time and essential living items among them. Sam seized on it and began making a list of things he could buy.

Scrolling down a little further he saw there was a list of homeless shelters and drop-in centers in the state. He was surprised to find there was a couple in Palo Alto that'd never heard of. The drop-in center was looking for volunteers for medical and legal matters.

He heard movement in the lounge and Jessica came into the room, her voice sleepy as she said, "Hey, baby, what are you doing?"

"Just looking up some stuff," Sam said.

Jessica peered over his shoulder and looked at the screen. "Homeless shelters?" Was it Sam's imagination or did she sound disappointed?

"Yeah," he said, turning in his chair to face her.

"Any reason?" she asked.

Sam told her about the man he had seen at the hospital and his desire to help. She listened carefully and then said, "Sure, we can do something about that. I'm pretty sure the college has a student committee that works with the homeless, too. We can see about joining that when the new semester starts."

"Yeah, but I want to do something _now_ ,"Sam said, impassioned.

"Okay," she said, obviously a little confused. "I'll help, but why does this suddenly matter so much to you?"

Sam looked back at the laptop screen as he answered. "Because there are people out there risking everything to help other people, and I'm not doing anything like it." He knew she would understand who he was speaking about at once, but she didn't comment on it for which he was grateful. He wasn't ready to talk about Dean.

She put her hand on his shoulder, and when she spoke her voice was soft. "We can do that, Sam. I'll help you."

"There's something else I want to do, too," he said. "I want us to go see Dad for a few days. I spoke to him earlier and he seems a little... off."

Jessica wrapped her arms around him and rested her chin on his shoulder. "You want us to go spend a few days by the lake, where we can relax and just be together after weeks of worry and drama? Damn, Sam, you sure do ask a lot from me."

Sam laughed. "That's a yes then?"

"That's a definite yes. Let's get packed."

"Good," Sam said. "But there's a couple things I want to do first."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam picked up his list of essentials to deliver. "I want to shop."

* * *

They made the journey to Oregon last a couple days, driving along the coastal roads and stopping for the night in a small beachside motel. Sam was excited to be going home for a while, and feeling peaceful in himself following their trip back to the hospital to deliver a backpack of essentials to the man Sam had given money to. It transpired that his name was Rick and he had fallen on hard times following an accident that had wiped out his insurance, his savings, and eventually his home. He was grateful for the bag though, and seemingly more grateful for the hour Sam and Jessica spent talking to him in a diner where they bought him dinner. They said their goodbyes with promises to return and talk again.

When they pulled up in front of James' sprawling lake house, Sam got out and took a deep breath of the fresh open air. He fetched their bags from the trunk and carried them to the house. James' car wasn't there, and Sam guessed from the hour that he was at the hospital still. Sam unlocked the door with the key he kept on his fob and gestured Jessica in ahead of him. The house had a neglected air, as if James wasn't spending much time there. Sam's worry for his father grew. He was known to work too hard sometimes, and with Sam in college, there was no one to make sure he was taking care of himself.

As far as Sam knew, James hadn't ever dated since Sam's mother's death. He always said she was the only woman for him. Sam appreciated that the love they shared was great, but sometimes he wished his father would relax and let someone else love and take care of him.

Sam carried up their bags to the room they would share for their visit and threw open the windows to let in some fresh air. When he got downstairs, he saw Jessica had done the same with the kitchen and living room windows.

Sam opened the fridge and saw there was hardly any food in there, though there was a six-pack of beers that James wouldn't drink. They were the brand Sam and Jessica favored. The thought that James had bought those for them even though they'd made no plans to come made a lump form in Sam's throat. He needed to give his father more time.

Jessica peered over his shoulder and said, "I guess it's time for a trip to the store."

"We'll do it tomorrow," Sam said. "I'll get us takeout tonight. Right now I want beer and fresh air." He grabbed two beers from the pack and handed one to Jessica. They went through the living room into the vast backyard that led directly onto the lake by way of a jetty. There was a table and chairs set up and Sam and Jessica sat down. Jessica fiddled with her phone and set some music to playing, and Sam leaned his head back so the sun fell on his face.

"This is good," Jessica said appreciatively.

"Yeah," Sam replied lazily. He always forgot how much he loved being at the lake until he came back to it.

"What else shall we do while we're here?"

Sam lowered his head and grinned. "I'm sure we'll find something to entertain us. It's a big bed we've got upstairs after all."

She kicked his shin. "Mind out of the gutter, Hydeker. I was thinking more wholesome activities."

Sam rubbed his shin and said, "Well, Dad was saying they'd finished building that zip-line park in Rocky Point. There's always the canoes and fishing."

"Zip lines I'm up for, but you're nuts if you think you're getting me on the lake again after last time."

"It wasn't so bad," Sam said.

"You capsized us! And the water was damn cold."

"I didn't mean to," Sam said innocently.

"Sure, so you say. I'm still not convinced."

Sam leaned back in his chair and took a draw on his beer. "Okay. No water sports. We'll find something to do though, I'm sure." He grimaced. "We should probably start cramming for the LSAT, too."

"You're right," Jessica said. "We'll give ourselves a couple days and then get to work, okay?"

"Sounds good to me," Sam said. There was the sound of tires on gravel then and Sam straightened in his chair. "Dad's home."

He stood and made his way back into the house just as James came in through the front door. "Sam!" he said, his pleasure obvious despite his weariness. "I didn't know you were coming. Why didn't you say?"

"We thought we'd surprise you," Sam said, stepping forward and receiving his father's embrace.

"Jessica is here, too?" James asked.

"Yeah, we came down on the coast road."

James smiled widely. "Wonderful. Let's have a drink together so we can catch up."

"I'll get you one," Sam said. "Jess is out back."

James patted Sam's shoulder and shrugged off his jacket before going out of the door. Sam went into the living room and poured James a whiskey from the decanter on the sideboard and carried it outside. James was sitting with Jessica at the table, his tie loosened and his expression relaxed if tired. Sam sat down and took a surreptitious look at his father. He looked worn down. There were light shadows under his eyes and his skin was pale.

"So," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "How are you really, Dad? You look tired."

"I'm okay. A little worn down maybe. I've been working."

"There's no food in the refrigerator. What have you been eating?"

James smiled ruefully. "Takeout and cafeteria food mostly." At Sam's scowl he went on. "Really, Sam, you know I'm a terrible cook anyway. I am probably better fed eating out than I would be trying to cook for myself."

Jessica was nodding with him and Sam shook his head in exasperation. "You're both hopeless. Well, unless you mind another night of takeout, Dad, we'll shop tomorrow and I'll cook enough to fill the freezer for you."

James relaxed back in his chair. "That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Son."

"You sure that's all though?" Sam asked. "You seem... different."

"That is all, I promise," James said. "I just need to eat."

"Rest too, maybe?" Jessica suggested.

James nodded. "Perhaps. I will see if I can try to take some time off while you're here. How long are you staying?"

"As long as you need us," Jessica answered.

Sam beamed at her. He knew Jessica would stay the entire summer break with him if he asked, dealing with her own family's disappointment, because that was just the kind of person she was. He would make sure that they spent time with her family, too.

"Wonderful," James said, "The lake will do you both good, and it'll be nice and quiet for you to get started on your LSAT study."

Sam exchanged a look with Jessica and they both grinned. "Sure thing, Dad," Sam said. "We've already got it covered."

* * *

Sam and James were standing on the jetty. In Sam's hands was his fishing rod, but he wasn't paying much attention to the task at hand; he was filling his father in on the things that had happened and what he had done since he'd last seen him.

"He had a car accident," Sam was saying. "Someone ploughed into the side of him at an intersection and the left side of his body was crushed. He spent months in hospital recovering, and by the time he got out he was financially ruined. He lost his job, and so his insurance; the bills were so high that he lost his house and life savings. He used to work for a children's charity, he helped kids, but he lost it all. Now all he has is the things he can carry on his back and a bench outside the hospital that saved and ruined him."

James nodded. "It's not an isolated case, I'm afraid. You know I do as much pro bono work as I can, but I can't control what comes after with the rehabilitation and recovery costs. Our family trust has relief funds set up for the homeless, but we can't help everyone."

"We do?" Sam asked.

"Yes. It was something your mother was passionate about—helping the needy."

"I didn't know," Sam said.

He didn't know that much about his mother as he didn't ask many questions. He knew it hurt his father to think about those times, so as soon as he was old enough to realize that, he stopped asking. Little details about her slipped from James sometimes, but that was all. He wished he'd had a chance to know her himself.

"You didn't ask," James said simply.

Silence fell between them for a while. Sam returned his attention to his line and began to jig the rod up and down.

"I'm sorry," James said eventually. "I know I am not always the most open man when it comes to family matters, but it's hard."

"I understand," Sam said quickly.

"I should talk about her more, I know."

Sam bit his lip, wondering if his father was about to start, but he didn't. He pulled his line from the water and reset the bait.

"I can help you to become involved with the foundation," James said. "I always thought it better that you finish your studies before becoming involved in the finances and family legacy, but perhaps now is the time."

"I'd like that. Me and Jess have plans to help out at home, but if there's more I can do, I'd like to do it."

"I will arrange a meeting for you and Ted Brattigan while you're here. He's our financial adviser and will be able to teach you about it better than I can."

"That'd be great."

James turned to him and smiled. "I'm glad you're doing this, Sam. You're growing into a great man."

Sam felt his cheeks warm. His father had always made sure to make him see how proud he was of him, but he had ever said anything like this before. "Thanks, Dad," he said.

"I mean it," he went on. "I never imagined I could have a son like you."

The phrasing fell strangely on Sam's ears. He didn't say _would_ have a son, he said _could_. It was probably just a bad word choice, but it felt wrong to Sam. It was on the tip of his tongue to question it somehow, but then he felt a jerk in his hand as something tugged on his line.

"You've got something!" James said excitedly. "Reel it in, Sam."

As he reeled in the large trout that had caught on his line, with his father's hand on his shoulder, he shook his head, shaking off the thoughts. It was just the whole thing with Dean that had him jumping at shadows. James was his father and family. That was fact. The rest was the confusion of a grieving man's mind.

* * *

James was called into work the next day before Sam woke, despite the fact he still had a few days of vacation left, as there had been an emergency admission that he was needed for. Sam didn't see him until he came in late that evening, but when he did he was surprised by his father's appearance. He looked almost well. Sam had worried that his hearty meals and care hadn't been helping his father, but when he came back that evening his eyes were bright and his color better than it had been. It seemed his care was finally working. It didn't escape Sam's notice that it was the combination of food and work that made the difference, not rest. His father apparently needed to work to be well.

They didn't see as much of him as Sam would have liked over the next week. He returned late in the evenings and ate a quick meal with them before heading to bed only to wake early in the morning to go back to the hospital. But he seemed to become more well the more he worked.

Sam and Jessica occupied their days with mornings spent studying for the LSAT and afternoons exploring activities in the area and relaxing by the lake.

One evening Sam was preparing pasta for their dinner while Jessica sat at the island counter, quizzing him on facts and laws when Sam heard the front door open and close hard. Knowing his father wasn't usually a door slammer, he knew something had happened to really upset him.

He exchanged a look with Jessica, then wiped his hands on a cloth and walked into the hall. James was standing by the coat rack, his suit jacket in his hand. He seemed to be staring into the mirror beside the rack, his face mournful.

Sam rushed towards him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Dad?"

James turned and Sam was shocked as he saw the look in his father's eyes; he was devastated. "Sam," he sighed.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked.

James shook his head. "I need a drink," he said instead of answering.

"Yeah, of course," Sam said. "You go sit down." He hurried into the living room and poured a generous measure of whiskey. He carried it to his father where he was sitting in a wing backed chair by the empty fireplace. James took it and sipped at it.

Jessica came into the room, and after exchanging a quizzical look with Sam, she sat down opposite James. Sam leaned against her chair and rested his hand on the back of her neck, feeling the silky strands of her hair under his fingers.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked his father.

James raised his head and looked at Sam. "I lost a patient today."

Sam was a little puzzled. James had lost countless patients over the years and Sam had never seen him react like this.

"It was a child," James went on.

"Oh," Jessica whispered.

James nodded. "And I tried everything, I did everything, but he slipped away anyway. And his poor parents…"

"It's not your fault," Sam said firmly. "You said it yourself, you tried everything."

"I should have tried harder!" James said angrily. "I didn't… I couldn't… And his poor parents. It seems they're going to lose both their children now."

"Both?" Jessica asked in a bewildered voice.

"They were both admitted a day apart. Pneumonia."

Sam felt Jessica's muscles bunch under his hand. He ran his hand down her back soothingly.

"That's terrible," he said.

"It's unusual, too, right?" Jessica asked.

"Yes," James said, his eyes fixed on his glass. "It's moving through families, sibling to sibling, and there's nothing I can do for them. I am trying _everything_ I can think of."

"How many?" Jessica asked.

"There are five on the children's ward at the moment, comatose and fading."

Sam felt that Jessica was still tense, and he ran his hand up and down her back as he tried to find words to comfort. He wasn't surprised she was upset by the situation, as she was an incredibly compassionate woman.

"I need to sleep," James said, downing his whiskey and getting to his feet.

"You need to eat, too," Sam said. "You can't take care of them if you're run down, Dad."

James looked at him sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Son. I know you're trying to help, and I appreciate it, but I think I need to be alone right now."

Shoulders slumped and head bowed, he set down his glass on the side table and walked from the room. Sam watched him go, feeling helpless.

* * *

 **So… Children are dying. We know what that means, Jess knows what it means, but poor Sam is without a clue. John and Dean will be back in the next chapter and there will be a** _ **big**_ **development. See you all then.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	15. Chapter 14

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy and Gredelina1 for all you do for me and the story. You're awesome.**

 **Thank you all for the continued support.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fourteen**_

Dean had set up everything for the search on the wall in Jim's dining room. John had wanted it in his own bedroom, but Dean had known that was a bad idea. He didn't need to spend his sleeping hours surrounded by the hunt as well as his waking ones. It would make it all even harder on him. Not that it was easy now.

John seemed a little better having something to focus on other than his yearning to see Sam, but Dean was still woken by him crying out in his nightmares disguised as memories, though it wasn't every night anymore. Dean was having more restful nights, too. In all, Dean was thankful for the change and appreciative of what he had.

He was standing facing the map with his hands behind his back. He was so lost in thought that the little dots of color that denoted clues were blurring into a wash of color. When John laid a hand on his shoulder, he started.

"Are you okay, Son?" John asked, concern furrowing his brow.

"Sure, I'm fine. What were you saying?"

"Ash came through for us with something," John said, "There's been a spate of deaths from whooping cough in Vermont."

"Is that still even a thing?" Dean asked.

"Yeah. There's a vaccine but not everyone has it these days, and it's spread in a small town. I think this could be it."

"But the last bunch of kids all died from pneumonia," Dean said.

"Yeah, but it's not about the condition itself," he said impatiently. "It's the immune system being depleted. They could be catching whooping cough and dying because their bodies can't beat it off."

Dean considered the situation. He didn't know much about medicine, but this didn't feel right to him. He'd imagined finding the Shtriga so many times. He'd dreamed about it, how it would feel to fire a bullet into its brain and end it at last. It had always been pneumonia that drew them in. He knew that wasn't the most logical reasoning, but he felt strongly about it.

"Maybe," he said slowly. "Let me research it a little more and we'll…" He cut off as his phone rang on the table. He picked it up and his heart leaped as he saw the caller ID. "I'll be right back," he said vaguely, and left the room, walking through the kitchen and out into the backyard as he connected the call and said, "Jess?"

" _Yeah, it's me,"_ she replied.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you okay? Is Sam okay?"

" _We're both fine,"_ she said soothingly.

It occurred to him that she'd said she'd get in touch when Sam was ready to talk, and his breath caught in his throat. Was it possible that it was time already? Would he be able to go back into that room and tell John Sam was ready?

"What is it, Jess?"

" _It's… I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think there's something going on here, your kind of something."_

"Vampires again?" Dean asked, confused.

" _No, and I'm not in California right now. We've come to visit Sam's… James."_ Dean heard the hesitation and he was glad she had stopped herself from saying 'Dad'. He didn't think he could bear to hear that in reference to anyone but John. _"Dean, I think the Shtriga is here."_

Dean sucked in a breath as his pulse rush in his ears. From what seemed a long distance, he said, "Where are you?"

* * *

Five minutes later, when he had a handle on his emotions, Dean walked back into the dining room to see John staring out of the window. As Dean entered, he turned to face him and his expression became concerned. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Who was on the phone?"

Dean drew a breath and said, "I know where to find the Shtriga."

John blanched. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

Dean didn't answer directly. Instead he said, "It's in Oregon. I know someone there. Look, Dad, if you come, we have to do this as covertly as possible."

John scowled. " _If_ I come. Why wouldn't I? What on earth makes you think I would possibly let you go after this alone? This is the _Shtriga,_ Dean. It tore our family apart. What if it takes you?"

"Because… It's Sam, Dad. He's there."

John swayed and his hand grappled for support on the back of a chair. Dean hurried to his side, pulled out a chair, and guided his father into it. He understood how he felt, as he had needed a few minutes sitting in the fresh air to calm himself before deciding what to do.

"Sammy," John breathed.

"Yeah," Dean said solemnly. "It was his girlfriend that called."

"Does Sam know?" he asked.

"No. Which is why we have to be careful. If you come, you have to make sure to stay out of his way."

"I'm coming," John said determinedly. "There's no way I am letting you take this on your own.

Dean saw the resolution in his eyes and knew there was no point trying to argue. John had decided. All he could do was try to make sure his father knew exactly what going there meant and what they had to do. "Okay, but you have to listen to me. We cannot let him see us. He's still not ready for us, and we have to respect that. Understand?"

"Yes," John said impatiently. "I understand. And I will do what you say, but, Dean, can we at least _see_ him? I won't let him see me, I swear, but I need to see him."

Dean understood the desire. He himself would like another glimpse of Sam. He thought Jim had a point, though, when he had asked if John would be able to stop looking.

"We'll see what happens," he said evasively.

"Dean…"

"We'll see," he said again. "We have to be so careful, Dad. We can't ruin it or we'll never have him back." He redirected. "We're not there for Sam. We're there for the Shtriga."

John's face darkened with anger. "Yes," he hissed. "It's time." He brought shaking hands up to his face and rubbed at his eyes.

"Yes," Dean agreed, squeezing his father's shoulder. "It's time to take that son of a bitch down."

* * *

It was a cross country drive from Blue Earth to Oregon, and they made it driving in shifts and sleeping when they could. By the time they arrived in Klamath Falls, they were hungry, tired and aching. They booked into the first motel they found and changed clothes. Though they were both longing for a shower and some solid sleep, they wanted to see Jessica sooner rather than later.

Dean dialed her number, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs stretched out in front of him to ease the stiffness.

" _Hey, Mom,"_ she answered. _"How are you doing?"_

"Oh, he's there," Dean said.

" _Yeah, we're out by the lake. Let me get out front, the signal might be better."_

Dean listened to the sounds of movement and then footsteps on gravel as Jessica moved and then her voice came over the line, quieter. _"Sorry about that."_

"It's okay," Dean said. "Look, I'll be quick. We're in town now and need to talk to you. Can you get away?"

" _Yeah, I should be able to. Sam's fishing right now, so I can say I'm running into town for something."_ She didn't sound happy about lying, but she was at least on board with meeting them. _"Where are you?"_

"We're in a place called The Maverick. Can you come here or do you want to meet somewhere else?"

" _I'll come to you,"_ she said _. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll be there."_

"Thanks, Jess," Dean said gratefully.

"See you soon."

They exchanged goodbyes and Dean set the phone down on the bed beside him. "She's coming here," he said.

John looked around the room. "We've got nothing to offer her to drink."

"She's not expecting anything, Dad. This isn't a 'meet the parents' thing. It's a hunt. It's _the_ hunt."

"I know, but I want to…" He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"What is it, Dad?" he asked.

"This is the first connection to Sammy's, Sam's, new life I have. I want it to go right. I know it's not about meeting his girlfriend, except it kind of is. She's the only real link to him that we have right now, and I don't want to mess it up."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. He understood what his father was saying, even though he didn't particularly like it. "Well, she's not going to care whether we have anything for her to drink. Jess isn't like that. She'll just be happy to meet you She's a great girl. Really."

John smiled slightly. "Good."

Dean moved to the window and peered out, waiting for Jessica's arrival, while John paced the room. Ordinarily, Dean would have seen the pacing as a sign for concern, a sign his father was slipping, but he was so far beyond slipping now it wasn't even a factor to monitor. John was dealing with an incredible situation in the best way he knew how, and, as Dean admitted to himself, he was actually dealing with it better than they had any right to expect. He was at least not trying to knock down Sam's door.

A recent model Ford pulled into the parking lot with Jessica behind the wheel. "She's here," Dean said, going to the door and opening it. Jessica caught sight of him and brought her car to a halt in front of their room. She climbed and gave Dean a strained smile.

"Hey," he said.

She walked towards him and, catching him completely off guard, put her arms around him in a hug. "Hey."

Dean patted her back awkwardly and was relieved when she released him and stepped back. "Come on in," he said.

She entered and came to a stop just a few feet inside the room. John was standing by the second bed, giving her space, and her eyes were fixed on him. John looked nervous, and as Dean turned back to Jess to reassure her, he saw she did too.

"Uh, Jess, this is my dad, John Winchester," he said awkwardly.

"Yeah," Jessica said quietly. "I can see."

"It's nice to meet you, Jess," John said carefully.

"You too," she said with a sad smile. "Really."

She walked forward and extended a hand. Looking almost awed, John shook it. For a moment they just stared at each other, and then Jessica turned to Dean and said, "You look terrible. Have you slept at all lately?"

Dean huffed a laugh. That was a loaded question when speaking to a Winchester. "We just drove over from Minnesota," he said.

Jessica's eyes widened. "You _drove_ from Minnesota in two days! How?"

"We drove fast," John quipped.

Dean turned to him, stunned. It was the closest John had come to a joke in more years than Dean could count. A laugh bubbled out of him and John smiled in response; it made him look years younger than his usual frown did.

Jessica looked between them, smiling in a way that made Dean sure she realized how rare the moment was.

Still smiling slightly, John gestured Jessica to a seat at the small table under the window and then joined her, leaving the edge of the bed for Dean.

"So," Dean said, businesslike. "You said you think there's a Shtriga in town. What makes you think that?"

"Pneumonia. There's five comatose kids in town right now, dying of pneumonia. There's already been two lost, a pair of brothers, and according to James, he's set to lose another any day now. It came out of nowhere, and nothing James tries is making any difference to them, and he's doing _everything_."

"Brothers," John said thoughtfully. "I heard lore about that, but it wasn't clear in the last town." He cleared his throat. "Shtrigas sometimes go through families. Picking a family and moving through all the children before moving on to the next."

"It sounds like that's what's happening here," Dean said. "And seven taken already!"

"It's just getting started," John said. "These things stick around for months feeding."

Jessica shuddered and John looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you."

"It's okay," Jessica said. "I mean, yeah, I'm upset, but that's not your fault. You guys are the heroes here." She rubbed a hand over her face. "So, how do you go about killing this thing?"

"Consecrated iron rounds," John said. "I have a buddy that casts them for hunters, and he gave us a full clip each."

She nodded and glanced at her watch. "I should get back. I said I was just running out for something."

"One more minute," John said, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Please."

Jessica looked at him, confused, but Dean thought he knew where it was leading. "Dad…"

"What do you need, John?" Jessica asked, her tone soft.

"Sammy," John said, then quickly corrected. "Sam. Has he said anything about us, about Dean, at all?"

She looked sad as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, no, not yet. He's not ready, which means you have to be really careful while you're here. I don't know what he will do if he sees you too soon."

"We will be," Dean assured her. "I promise."

"But how is he?" John asked, seemingly oblivious to what they were saying.

"Not now, Dad," Dean said.

John held up a hand to him and spoke in a growl. "You've seen him. You've spoken to him. I haven't. Let me have this."

Dean knew this was a bad idea, but he also knew John was right. He had seen Sam and developed a relationship with him even, though it had ultimately gone to hell. John deserved a chance to ask his questions.

"Okay," he said.

Jessica nodded and said gently, "He's fine. He loves spending time here at the lake."

"He's happy?" John asked.

"Very happy. He usually is. He has a good life, John."

John thumbed away the wetness in his eyes and said. "Tell me more. Tell me everything about him,"

"Okay, uh, he's cooking a lot right now. He's a really good cook. And we're studying for our LSATs, so that's kinda intense but exciting. He's smart, crazy smart, and he works hard." Jessica's face transformed into a smile as she spoke about the man she loved. "He's been out on the lake in the kayak, but I let him do that alone. Oh! He's working towards helping homeless people at the moment. He met this guy outside the hospital and it's made him impassioned about making things better for them, not just throwing money at the problem."

Dean remembered the man at the hospital. He didn't think he had even acknowledged him. He'd barely noticed him at all, but Sam had met him, was helping him.

"He's a good man," John said.

"The best," Jessica said, nodding vigorously. "He's compassionate and kind. He's the one our friends go to with problems because they know he'll do everything he can to help them fix it. Once Sam loves you, he loves you with everything he has."

John had ceased wiping away his tears. Now they streaked down his face. He looked so happy, though, as he absorbed these words about his son.

"He's the best man I know," Jessica finished.

John reached across the table and took her hands where they were folded. He squeezed them and spoke through his tears. "Thank you, Jess."

"I upset you," she said regretfully.

"No, you brought my son to life for me again. Thank you."

* * *

When Jessica had left and John calmed, Dean suggested they go to the store for some supplies.

"I thought we had to stay under the radar," John said.

"We know Sam's busy at the moment, so now's our best chance. We need to get stuff to eat because we're not going to be able to eat out while we're here. We'll never know when Sam will be in town, so we won't know when to go. We're going to have to limit our time outside the motel as much as we can." He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was going to be complicated as hell managing their time without bumping into Sam.

"Might be worth bringing someone else in," John suggested. "Caleb or Bobby."

"He's already met Bobby," Dean said. "He was there when we saved him from the vampires. Caleb would be a good choice though. He's good, and we might need him if we're going to get anything out of the staff at the hospital or the cops."

"I'll call him," John said, taking his phone from his pocket. He dialed and, when Caleb answered, Dean listened to a one-sided conversation in which Caleb seemed to agree to come join them pretty quickly. John ended the call and said, "He's just left Utah, apparently he and Kubrick teamed up for a skin walker, so he'll be here by morning."

"Great," Dean said, grabbing the Impala keys and making for the door. "Let's get out of here."

John stood and brushed a hand through his hair and they left the room.

The drive to the grocery store was short, and soon they were pushing a cart through the aisles. John was distracted and vague, though, staring at items on the shelves that they had no use for, fresh fruit and vegetables, so Dean left him to his thoughts and went on with the cart to grab what they needed. He had a selection of unexciting canned food and some beers in the cart when he heard the dull thud and sound of his father's voice. "Sammy?"

Cursing, he abandoned the cart and ran back an aisle in time to see Sam's tall form turning and running from the store. "Sam!" he called after him, but Sam didn't even slow. Where he had stood was a bag of lemons dropped on the floor. John started forward, and Dean knew he was going to follow Sam, so he grabbed his arm to restrain him, but John pushed him back and Dean stumbled.

"Dad, no!" he called

John didn't leave the store though. He merely bent and picked up the bag of slightly dented lemons, and turned back to Dean. "He dropped them," he said vaguely.

"Yeah," Dean said angrily. "You shocked him."

"No," John said. "He dropped them when he saw me. I didn't say a thing until after." His eyes lit up with a maniacal gleam. "He knew me, Dean. Sam knew me."

* * *

 **So… How's that for a development. Sam saw John. Did he really recognize him though, or is it wishful thinking?**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	16. Chapter 15

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the wonderful beta job and Gredelina1 for all your help. Thank you all for reading and supporting the story.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Fifteen**_

Sam had just changed out of his fishing clothes and into clean jeans and a t-shirt when he heard the sound of his car pulling onto the gravel drive. He rushed down the stairs and opened the door to greet Jessica. She smiled as she caught sight of him, though Sam thought it looked a little strained. As she came closer, he saw she her eyes were puffy, as if she'd been crying.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing," she said a little too quickly to be believable.

"Have you been crying?"

She shook her head and smiled. "No, it's my allergies. I passed the florist's just as they were spraying the displays, and I got a face full of pollen."

It was a believable lie, and Sam almost accepted it, but the desperation in her eyes _for_ him to believe made Sam doubt. She obviously didn't want to talk about whatever it was though, so he didn't push her, knowing that when she was ready, she would come to him.

"I think Dad's got some antihistamines in the bathroom cabinet," he said.

"No, I'll be fine now that I'm away." She kissed his cheek and said, "Thank you, though."

Sam wrapped his arms around her and held her close for a moment, then he released her and took the car keys from her hand. "You rest and feel better. I need to run into town to get a few things for dinner. Your magnificent hunter-gatherer boyfriend caught us some salmon for dinner."

He expected her to laugh at his joke, but she didn't. She looked tense as she said, "I'll go. You've been busy all day. I don't mind going out again."

"It's okay," Sam said. "I could do with a drive, and I'd like to get a few things for myself. Besides, dinner is taken care of but dessert is still up for grabs. I was thinking you could make one of your cheesecakes. You know Dad is nuts for them, and I want to make sure he eats something decent tonight."

"Okay," she said, though Sam thought it sounded reluctant. "Well, hurry back to me. If we're having fish, you're going to be cleaning it yourself. There's no way I'm going near those dead eyes."

Sam laughed "Don't worry. I'll do it all." He walked around her to the car, then hesitated with his hand on the door. "Didn't you go into town to get something?"

"Yeah."

"Then where is it?"

"Oh, I, uh, couldn't get it. I need to go back tomorrow."

Again, Sam thought she was lying. He guessed it was some surprise though, as he and Jessica didn't usually lied to each other. He nodded and smiled then climbed into the car and started the engine. He drove a loop around the flowerbed that centered the driveway and out onto the road, tapping the horn once in farewell.

He put the radio on and hummed along to the music as he tried to puzzle out Jessica's behavior. He could understand the lie if she was planning some surprise, but why had she been crying? It didn't make sense. When he got back to the house, he'd try to talk to her again.

When he got to the store, he parked in the lot and climbed out. He didn't bother to take a cart as he just needed a few things. He entered and made straight for the fruit. He put some lemons into a plastic bag and carried on up the aisle. He'd stopped by a refrigerated cabinet and tried to remember which type of cream he needed for the sauce when a man brushed past him.

Sam turned to apologize and then did a double take. He knew this man. He couldn't think who he was, but he knew him. He started to smile automatically and then the man turned to him and Sam saw his face properly. It was a gut punch of shock. He didn't know how or why, but the sight of this man made his fingers loosen and the bag of lemons drop out of his hand.

The man's face transformed into a delighted smile, "Sammy?" He sounded awed, astounded, happier than Sam thought he should be, and Sam knew at once that he had to get out of that store, away from that man, because to let him talk was to risk terrible, world-changing pain.

He turned on his heel and ran from the store. Behind him heard another voice he knew, but he didn't let it stop him. Behind him lay something terrible, something he couldn't handle. He had to escape.

He threw himself into the car and gunned the engine to life. The radio started with the engine, and he cranked up the volume loud enough to hurt his ears in an attempt to drown out his thoughts. He roared out of the parking lot and onto the road, and weaved through the slow main street traffic to get onto the highway. When he did, he pressed down hard on the accelerator and raced towards home.

He yanked on the wheel and the brakes squealed when he reached the turning for the house, and he skidded to a halt halfway up the drive. Jessica ran from around the side of the house, her expression taut with concern. She got to Sam's side as he practically fell out of the car.

"Sam! What's wrong?"

Sam didn't answer. He barely heard her at all. He walked past her and into the house, straight to the kitchen. He yanked open the fridge and grabbed a beer, then twisted off the cap and drained half the bottle.

Jessica came up behind him. "What's wrong?"

Sam slammed the bottle down on the countertop. It wasn't enough. He needed something stronger than just beer. He marched into the living room and to the liquor cabinet. He poured himself a measure of whiskey and gulped it. It burned the back of his throat and made him gasp.

"You're scaring me," Jessica said tremulously, and when Sam looked up he saw tears swimming in her eyes.

In the face of her sadness and fear, he felt his own turmoil starting to seep out of him. He wanted to comfort her, but he wasn't sure he still had the power of words. He lowered his glass and set it on the cabinet and opened his arms to her. She rushed into them and buried her face into his neck.

"What's wrong?" she asked again.

"Dean's here," he said, surprised at the coldness in his tone. She stiffened in his arms and he pulled back to look at her. "You knew." It wasn't a question.

She released him and took a step back. "I knew."

"Dammit, Jessica!"

Color rose in her cheeks but when she spoke her voice was even. "They're not here because of you."

"They?"

"Dean and his dad."

Sam's teeth clicked as his mouth snapped closed. So it _was_ Dean's dad. He had suspected it, but to have it confirmed was still a shock. It was Dean's father that he had seen, Dean's father that had made him feel that gut punch of emotion.

"Dammit," he said again. He reached for his drink and sipped it this time. It went down smoother.

Jessica walked out of the room and Sam followed automatically. She took the bottle of beer that Sam had abandoned and took a seat at the table, looking at Sam expectantly. He took the hint and sat beside her.

"Why are they here?" he asked.

"Because of the children with pneumonia."

Sam was confused. "What are they supposed to do about it?"

"It's not natural, what's happening to them," she said. "It's the same thing that took… Dean's brother." Sam knew she had stopped herself saying 'you' and he was glad. He didn't think he would be able to take it had she said that, had she been so wrong.

"What is it?"

"It's called a Shtriga. It feeds on the life force of children, making them sick. They languish and then die."

"The kids in the hospital," Sam breathed.

"Yeah, at least that's what I thought, so I called Dean."

"Youcalled him!"

"Yes," she said a little impatiently. "I know you're not ready to face him yet, Sam, but children are dying and I had to call."

"You should have told me."

"Why?" she asked. "What good would it have done? They weren't supposed to see you. We had a deal. They'd do what they had to do for the children and leave you alone." Her tone softened. "Baby, I was trying to protect you. I couldn't leave children to die, and I couldn't make you leave town because your dad needs you right now. I thought this was the only way."

Sam nodded slowly. He understood why she had hidden it from him and admitted that if she _had_ told him, he would have been torn on what to do. He wouldn't have wanted to stay in town with them there, but he couldn't have left his father either.

If he was honest with himself, he wasn't angry at Jessica; he was angry at himself for his reaction to seeing Dean's dad. Why had his body betrayed him like that—that punch of emotion? Why had it hurt to see him?

Jessica shifted her chair closer and laid her hand on the back of his neck, which usually soothed him. Her thumb rubbed small circles intended to comfort, but for once they didn't help. He still felt like he was choking on the feelings the encounter had dredged up in him.

"It's not so bad," she said. "I'll make sure you don't see them again. They'll take care of the problem and leave, I promise."

Sam nodded and sniffed. "Okay. Good." He got to his feet. "I'm going to lie down a while."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Sam shook his head but cupped her cheek to take away the sting of his refusal. "No. I just need to be alone a while."

She looked sad but said, "Okay."

Sam turned away from her and walked up the stairs. When he got to their room, he collapsed on the bed and closed his eyes. The face of the man—Dean's father—lurked behind his closed lids, and he quickly pushed it away. He was nothing to Sam. A stranger. He hadn't recognized him. He was just a face he'd seen in a place before, probably when he was in Stanford. Sam was confused, that was all. There was no way Jessica and Dean were right. Just no way. Because that would mean everything he knew of himself and believed of his father, was a lie.

* * *

" _He knew me, Dean. Sam knew me."_

Dean felt his heart sink at John's words. Things just kept getting worse and worse. If it wasn't bad enough they had let Sam and Jessica down by being seen only a few hours into their stay, John was now struggling even more to the point he thought Sam knew him, too. Dean honestly didn't know what to do next. He stood with his hands limp at his sides and his heart aching.

John took the onus from him though. He placed the lemons on a random shelf and tugged Dean's arm. "Where's the cart?"

"Huh?"

"We should finish shopping. I don't think Sam's going to hang around outside, but we should give him time to get away before we go out."

Dean nodded eagerly, thinking maybe it wasn't as bad as he thought, and led his father back along the aisles to where he'd abandoned the cart. John took the handle and glanced into it. "Looks like we've got plenty of canned goods, but we're going to need more than a six-pack of beer."

Dean trailed after him along the aisles until they reached the liquor section. He was marveling at the change in his father; he was so self-possessed. It was such a change from John's usual behavior that it worried him more than it would if he had broken down.

John picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and one of Jose Cuervo and put them in the cart then led Dean to the register. Together they set the items on the conveyer belt and John bagged while Dean paid the sales clerk.

"Think it's been long enough?" John asked as they walked toward the exit.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I think he's long gone."

John's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he didn't comment as they walked outside and to the car. Sam was nowhere in sight, as Dean had known he wouldn't be. If he was Sam, he would have burned rubber getting away.

John pushed Dean towards the driver's side of the car while he loaded their bags into the trunk. Dean slid in behind the wheel and waited for his father to close the trunk and get in beside him before starting the engine. He pulled out of his spot and drove toward the lot exit, casting John occasional glances. After a few minutes of covert peeks at him, John said, "You can relax, Dean. I'm okay. I'm not planning on chasing Sam down."

"What are you planning on doing?" Dean asked before he could stop himself.

"Nothing," he replied.

Dean wished he could believe him, but he had eighteen years of this version of his father, and stopping, taking a step back when it was Sam, wasn't going to happen.

He concentrated on the road again, and drove them back to the motel. When they got there, they both grabbed bags from the trunk and carried them inside. John set his down on the small kitchenette counter and took the bottles of liquor from it and carried them to the table. Dean grabbed the two water glasses from the bathroom and brought them out. John nodded approval and scrutinized the bottles for a moment before setting the Jack Daniel's aside and unscrewing the cap of the Jose. He poured a small measure into each glass and then pushed one across the table to Dean.

"Drink up, Son," he said.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

"Giving us both what we need," he replied. He raised his own glass to Dean and said, "Drink up," again before knocking it back.

Though Dean was sure it was a bad idea—he needed to be sober to deal with the mess they were in—he picked up his glass and knocked his drink back. It seared his throat and warmed his chest, and he realized John was exactly right: this was what he needed. He needed to stop being responsible for a while. He needed to deal with his shock, and he needed the chance to stop thinking as only alcohol could provide.

He waited for his father to replenish his glass and then took the seat opposite him and knocked back his second drink.

John waited until he had set the glass back on the table before saying, "He knew me, Dean."

Dean fixed his eyes on his father, expecting to see tears, but there were none. John looked calm, assured, like he always had once.

"This isn't like before," he went on. "Then I was seeing Sammy in places he wasn't. This time he _was_ there and _he_ saw me."

"How do you know?"

"Because he was shocked before I spoke. He was coming up the aisle and I brushed past him. He started to smile, the way you do when you see someone you know, and then he really saw me. He dropped the lemons, and then when I said his name, he ran. But I saw his face first. He wasn't just shocked; he was scared. You don't look like that over a stranger."

He poured Dean another drink and then went on.

"If he was going to remember either of us, it would be me. I haven't changed the way you have. You were a child when he last saw you. I was a man. I was his father. I look almost the same."

That was true. Though John was a wreck of the man he once was, the physical changes weren't obvious unless you were someone that knew him well. The slumped shoulders, the sad eyes, the wrinkles around the eyes, were all subtle. Sam could have recognized him.

Dean drank his third shot and nodded. "You could be right. Hell, you probably are. He definitely reacted strongly enough." He held out his glass for another, drank it, and gasped. "That doesn't answer the question of what we do next, though. He ran from us.

"You know what we do next," John said. "You've been saying it to me for weeks now. We wait. Sam knows we're here and we want to see him. We have to wait for him to want the same. Jess knows how to get in touch with us."

"And what do we do in the meantime?" Dean asked.

"We do what we came to do—kill the Shtriga. We stop other families suffering the same pain we did for eighteen years. We save the children."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, good. That I can do."

"I know you can, Son." He refilled Dean's glass and held up his own in a toast. "To revenge, and to Sammy."

Dean lifted his glass. "To Sammy."

* * *

 **So… Denial – not just a river in Egypt for Sammy. Things are moving though, and I think you'll really enjoy the next chapter.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	17. Chapter 16

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fab beta job and Gredelina1 for all our help and support.**

 **Thank you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story x**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Sixteen**_

Sam slipped out of bed in the middle of the night, leaving Jessica alone. She snuffled into her pillow and her hand came out to lie on the empty place he had left, but she didn't wake. He pulled on a hoodie to combat the chill of the night and crept out of the room and down the stairs.

In the kitchen he saw the remnants of Chinese takeout on the counter. He was glad that Jessica and his father had eaten something even though he hadn't cooked for them, having hidden in bed all evening and most of the night.

He set the coffee pot up and flipped it on, needing the warmth and caffeine kick. As it hissed and burbled, he leaned against the counter and stared down at the floor. He didn't know why he was doing this. It felt wrong, a betrayal to the father he loved, but he knew he wouldn't rest until he had. He needed answers, though he hated it.

When the coffee was ready, he poured a large mug and carried it over to the table. His laptop was in its bag, hanging on the back of a chair. He retrieved it and set it up on the table. It took a couple minutes to boot up and open a search engine, and he tapped his fingers impatiently on the table top as he waited. When it was ready, he began a search for Dean Winchester. He knew from his friend Brady that everyone left something online; nothing was ever truly deleted. If you looked hard enough, you could find it. But it seemed Dean Winchester was the exception. There was nothing. No Facebook profile, no MySpace. No social media of any sort that he could find that matched the person he knew. There were dozens of results for the name, but none whose picture matched Dean. Frustrated, Sam searched the name and 'hunting'. He should have known that was a mistake—there were thousands of results, but as far as he could see they all concerned the rifle maker and wildlife hunting.

He was trying to think of another combination to try when he heard the sliding door open in the living room. He tensed, but a moment later his father came into the room, and Sam relaxed, though his father started.

"Dad," he breathed. "You scared me. What were you doing?"

"I could ask you the same. It's early, Sam. Why are you up?"

"I guess I slept too early," he said, closing the laptop. "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep."

"Yes, Jessica said you had a headache. I came to check on you but you were dead to the world. How are you feeling now?"

"Okay," Sam lied. In truth, he felt the farthest thing from okay. He was wracked with guilt that he was even questioning what he had always believed. At the same time, he couldn't seem to stop himself. "How are you? What were you doing out so early?"

James sighed. "I can't sleep either. I keep thinking about those poor children and their parents. I can't imagine how they must feel." He hesitated. "Actually, I can. I don't know if I ever told you, but you were very ill when you were young."

"I was?" Sam asked.

"Yes, shortly after you turned four, you contracted a virus that beat you down. You had the most intense fever dreams. I was terrified I'd lose you."

Sam frowned. "I didn't know that. I don't remember."

"You wouldn't at that age. Children usually carry only a few memories from that age. I am grateful for it. Whatever you dreamed, it truly terrified you. I remember every moment though."

"Sorry," Sam said.

"You shouldn't apologize for something you can't control," James replied. "Ultimately, it ended well: you recovered and I had the most wonderful son."

Sam felt burning behind his eyes and he blinked rapidly. "I love you, Dad. You know that, right?"

James smiled. "I do. And I love you, too, Sam. More than anything." His brow creased with a frown. "Is there anything you want to talk about?"

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask about the Winchesters, to see if his father knew anything about them, if he would address Sam's possible adoption, but then he looked into his father's loved, open face, and said, "Nothing that matters."

"Okay," he said slowly. "I need to get ready for work, but remember, Sam, I am always here to talk when you need me."

"Thanks, Dad."

James patted his shoulder and walked from the room.

Sam wiped a hand over his face and opened his laptop again. Though it felt wrong to do it with his father awake in the house, he felt that he couldn't stop looking yet.

* * *

Jessica came down a few hours later, still sleepy and dressed in PJs. She kissed Sam and went to the coffee maker to fill a mug, then came to the table and sat down beside him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

Sam shrugged.

"Is that 'I don't know' or 'I don't want to talk about it'?" she asked, her tone gentle.

Sam sighed and ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "Jess," he said after a long pause, "why did you believe Dean?"

She knew what he meant at once, and she answered thoughtfully. "Because I saw it. Even before that, though, I think I believed. The story of the scars added up. And then, when I saw the picture… It was you, Sam. There's no question."

"That picture," he growled. "That damned picture." If Jessica hadn't been convinced by the picture, if she wasn't so sure, he would have been able to ignore the whole thing. It would have been a ridiculous story that he would have laughed off and gone about his life. But there was Dean's father. Sam had known him, and try as he might, he couldn't now convince himself that it was just familiarity of a casual encounter. The way seeing him had made him feel banished any uncertainty of whether it was something more. Sam had _known_ him, and knowing had hurt.

"I saw more," she said quietly. "Baby photos, toddler, child. It was you. There are no photos of you here before the age of four. There's none of your mother at all."

"There was a fire," Sam argued halfheartedly.

"There's not even a wallet picture, Sam. Do you really believe that your Dad wouldn't have carried a picture of the woman he loved so much?"

Sam bowed his head. He didn't believe. Now it was being pointed out to him, he wondered how he could have missed it for so long. He hated it though. He wanted his life to be what he had always believed it to be, simple, happy, not confused with strangers that were apparently his real family.

"I have one of Dean's photos," she said tentatively. "Do you want to see it?" She didn't wait for an answer before standing up and getting her purse from the side table. She took a small piece of glossy paper out and carried it back to him, facedown. "Do you?"

Sam didn't answer with words. He held out his hand and she placed it on his palm. Slowly, hyperaware that this photo could change his whole life, he turned it and looked down at the faces captured in ink.

A sob bubbled up his throat and escaped him in a cry of pain.

It was him. He looked a little younger that he was in the earliest pictures in his father's house, but there was no question. He was on Dean's father's lap, and they were sitting on the hood of a car. A child that Sam guessed was a young Dean leaned against his father's shoulder. On each face was a wide smile.

His eyes filled with tears and he set the photograph facedown on the table, unable to bear to look at it anymore. He began to cry in earnest, and Jessica wrapped her arms around him and soothed him with soft words. "It's okay, baby. It's okay."

That was wrong though. It wasn't okay. His whole world was imploding. The man he thought was his father wasn't, and the man that was his real father was a stranger.

"Why didn't he tell me?" he asked through his tears.

"I don't know," Jessica said. "Maybe he thought he was protecting you. You'll have to ask him."

Sam pulled back. "No!" he gasped. "I can't do that. He can't know about this."

"Don't you think you have the right to some answers?" she asked.

Sam shook his head. "I think he has the right to some peace of mind more."

"And your own peace of mind? What about that?"

"I won't hurt my father," he said. "Not for anything."

He couldn't. No matter what the circumstances, James was the only father he had ever known, and he loved him. He had lied to Sam to protect him, and Sam would do the same now. He wouldn't ask him for details that were unnecessary. He would carry on the life he had always led.

"What are you going to do then?" she asked. "You can't ignore this."

"I can," Sam said.

"What about Dean and John?"

"They're not my concern. They're not my family."

"Except they are," she argued. "They deserve the chance to at least talk to you, Sam, to tell their side of the story, to get some closure if that's what you decide. They have been grieving eighteen years, and now you're alive to them again. You can't leave then without a word. You said so yourself, Dean is a good man. He saved your life even. Don't you think he deserves better?"

Sam closed his eyes, and another tear slipped down his cheek. He hated that this had happened. Why couldn't his life be simple again? Why did he have to take into account the feelings of strangers? What did it matter to him if they'd been grieving for years? The answer that he didn't want to admit to himself was that he cared. Dean _had_ saved his life, and he'd been something like a friend, even for a short time.

"Please, Sam, do this for me," Jessica pleaded. "Don't leave them to hurt another eighteen years."

"What am I supposed to do?" Sam asked. "How do I help them?"

"Just talk to them. Let them see you and the life you lead now. Let them see you're happy."

Sam knew he had to do it. They deserved it from him. That didn't take the grudging from his voice though. "Okay. Fine. I'll do it."

Jessica pulled her phone from her purse and handed it to him. "Dean's number is on there."

"Can't you do it?" he asked.

"No, Sam," she said gently. "You need to take this first step yourself. Just call him. Arrange somewhere to meet."

It felt like too much to do, too much for Jessica to ask of him. He had always prided himself on being compassionate, though, and strong. He could be strong a little longer, for Dean and John. He could help them; he could make the call.

He pulled up Dean's number and pressed call. It rang three times before Dean answered, _"Jess? Is everything okay?"_

"It's Sam," he said. "I want to… Can we meet? You and your Dad I mean."

" _Of course,"_ Dean said with barely concealed excitement. _"Name a time and place."_ Sam heard a man's voice in the background and Dean shushing him.

"Conger Heights Park," Sam said. "There's a coffee shop by the lake. I'll meet you there in an hour."

" _Absolutely. We'll be there,"_ Dean said quickly, breathily. _"Thank you, Sam."_

Sam said a quick goodbye and handed the phone back to Jessica.

"I'm proud of you," she said.

"Don't be too proud yet," Sam said. "I'm not sure what I'm going to say."

Jessica cupped his cheeks in her hands and looked him in the eye. "That's okay, because I do."

* * *

The morning was beautiful. The light was glinting off the lake and making the dewy grass sparkle, but Sam noticed none of it. He was completely occupied with thoughts and anxiety of what was to come. He tried to tell himself there was nothing to be worried about, that they weren't there to hurt him, they just wanted to speak to him, but it didn't help. He didn't think he had ever been so scared in his life, not even when the vampires took him.

He and Jessica arrived early, wanting to stake claim on the meeting place and make it their own territory, but they weren't early enough. Dean and John were already there.

Sam hesitated on the path, and Jessica slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze. "You can do this," she said confidently.

Sam wished he was as sure.

He carried on forward though, toward the table they'd taken. As he approached, they both stood, and Dean laid his hand on his father's arm, whether to receive or give comfort Sam wasn't sure. John nodded and Sam saw his mouth moving with words he couldn't hear.

Jessica gave his hand another squeeze as they reached Dean and John and then released it. Sam felt the loss immediately, but he didn't reach for her again, not wanting to look weak.

"Sam," Dean said as they came to a stop in front of the table. "It's good to see you again." He smiled tentatively and Sam returned it automatically. "This is my dad, John Winchester."

Sam forced his eyes to move to the older man and he felt that same jolt in his gut. "Hey." As soon as he said the word he realized how lame it was. 'Hey'. He was greeting the man that had helped give him life, had raised him till the age of four. Yet there seemed to be no other words to say. He didn't know what to say or do.

It didn't seem to matter though. John's face broke into the widest, most blissful smile Sam had ever seen and he said, "It's good to see you, Sam," in a constricted voice.

For a moment Sam thought John was going to cry, and he felt panic rising in him again, but with Dean's touch on his shoulder, John mastered himself and smiled again. "You want to sit? A drink? Jessica?"

"A coffee would be great," Jessica said. "Sam?"

"Water, please," Sam said. He didn't think his roiling stomach could handle anything else in that moment.

"I'll help you out," Dean said, and they both stood and made for the small building that housed the coffee shop.

Sam turned panicked eyes to Jessica and hissed, "I don't think I can do this."

"You can," she said emphatically. "You are already doing it. The worst part is over; you've met them."

Sam closed his eyes and tried to summon calm.

"I am so proud of you," she went on.

Sam forced a smile. He felt the sincerity of her words, and knew he had to keep going. He wanted to make Jessica proud, and he wanted to help Dean and John, though it was hard to make sense of his feelings. They were apparently his family, blood, and yet they were practically strangers. Even Dean, whom he had shared a meal with and developed something of a friendship, was a stranger, as Sam had known Dean Aframian, the reporter/hunter, not Dean Winchester, his brother. Even the word stuck in his throat. Brother. How could he have lived this long and not known? Why hadn't he been told?

As Jessica's hand found the back of his neck and began to stroke soothingly, he realized his breaths were coming too fast. He made a concerted effort to calm them, and was moderately successful.

"That's it," she said gently. "You're okay."

The coffee shop door opened again, and Sam's heart leapt. Here they were. Dean's hands were laden with a tray holding three coffee cups and four bottles of water. Sam frowned as he set it down on the table.

"We didn't know which type you liked," Dean said. "Sparking, still, flavored and still or flavored and sparking."

Sam reached for the bottle of still and said, "This is fine; thank you."

John looked relieved, more than the situation demanded, and it occurred to Sam he wasn't the only person panicking here. It was perhaps even harder for them, as he wasn't a stranger; he was their son and brother, and they had known him. Though he supposed he had known them once, too, he couldn't remember now. The idea that he had once loved these people made his mind reel.

"So, Sam," John said when they each had their coffees in front of them and Jessica had doctored hers with cream, "I'm guessing you have a few questions for us."

Did he? He didn't feel like he did. No, that was a lie. He had many, he just wasn't sure he was ready for the answers.

"Dean said I was taken by something called a Shtriga out of my bed," he started quietly enough that John leaned forward to hear him. "How did it happen?"

Dean answered in a wrecked voice. "It was my fault. I was supposed to be taking care of you, but I left you alone in the room."

"It wasn't your fault," John said forcefully. "It was mine."

Dean spoke over him. "I went out to play videogames, and while I was gone, it came. I got back just in time to hear you being taken." He swallowed hard and his voice was choked as he said, "You were calling for me, but I was too slow."

Sam felt a wave of pity for him. He couldn't imagine how it must have felt for Dean, not only to take on the guilt for all those years, but for him to have heard Sam calling for him as he was carried away, too. One part of the story didn't add up though; if Sam was four when he was taken, and Dean was only a handful of years older, why wasn't John there?

He turned to him and asked, "Where were you?"

John's face twisted with sadness. "I was hunting. I was trying to track the Shtriga that took you. I left Dean and you alone in that motel, and I went to kill a monster." He fixed his eyes on Dean. "It was _my_ fault. I let you both down."

Sam considered his words. He thought it was irresponsible of John to have left him, but at the same time he understood it. He hadn't been neglectful, out drinking or bedding a woman, he'd been trying to save other lives.

"I don't think it was your fault," he said thoughtfully. "I think it was down to the monster that did it."

John sucked in a breath, and that same blissful smile curved his lips. It was if Sam had given him an unimaginable gift. He supposed in a way he had for them both. It would have been easy for him to blame them, but easy as it may be, it wasn't right. They had both made mistakes, but ultimately, it was the Shtriga that had taken him away.

"Thank you, Sam," Dean said in an almost awed voice.

Sam shrugged. "It's the truth."

"Have you asked your… father… about what happened?" Dean asked, and John winced.

"No," Sam said. "I don't want to hurt him. I've thought about it, though, and I figure I was found and taken to a hospital. Jess said the Shtriga made children sick, and my dad told me I was ill as a child. I guess he took me in and I stayed."

Dean nodded thoughtfully and John stared off into the distance, looking pained.

"I don't understand why the police didn't know when I was found though," he continued.

John turned back to him and his pained look became tortured. "I didn't tell them," he whispered. "In our life, hunting, we don't involve the police."

"Not even when your son is snatched out of his bed?" Sam asked, and Jessica laid a hand on his arm again.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," John said. "We thought we knew, were sure, what had happened to you. We thought you were killed. It seemed madness to involve cops—and social services that would surely follow—when it was too late."

Sam looked away over the lake. People were staring to arrive now, ready to spend the warm day enjoying the water. They were all innocent to the conversation that was happening at their table. They couldn't know this was the most important conversation of Sam's life.

He couldn't say he didn't blame John now, because he did. He felt like he had been abandoned to the Shtriga and he hadn't done what he could to save him. Even if they believed him dead, didn't they want to give him a funeral?

"I am so sorry," John said again. "I have never been sorrier in my life. I hate that this happened, that we didn't find you when we could have. We lost all those years, and that breaks our hearts."

Sam looked back at them and saw Dean nodding slowly. They were hurting, they had hurt for eighteen years, and Sam felt pity for them. They didn't understand that he'd had a good life. He had been loved by a good man, a father, and he'd been mostly happy. He wasn't cruel enough to talk about his father though.

"I've been happy," he said. "I don't know what life I would have had if I hadn't been taken, but I have had a good one with what I was given. I guess I just want you to know it wasn't all bad. I'm sure it was awful after I was taken, but I don't remember that. I only remember being happy."

Dean forced a smile. "We're glad, Sam, really. It's all we ever wanted for you. The worst part of losing you, aside from missing you, was knowing the life you were missing out on."

That was the thing, Sam thought. He had missed growing up with them and exploring their life, but from what he knew of them so far, how John had left them to save others, heroic as it was, he thought he might have had the better life without them. He would never say it, that would be cruel, but what haunted him wasn't a wasted life as it did them, or a life without his blood family; it was the fact had things been different, he would never have had James as a father.

* * *

 **So… What do you think? I know it wasn't the tearful reunion I would have liked it to be, but I had to stay true to the characters, especially Sam. It took a lot of edits to get it to this point, which I think is the truest response.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	18. Chapter 17

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the beta job and general awesomeness. Thank you also Gredlina1 for all your help in the outlining stage. Thank you all for reading, reviewing and supporting the story.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Seventeen**_

Dean knew that John was struggling and he should probably get him away, but the thought of leaving Sam when he was there and talking, engaging with them, was impossible.

It wasn't easy for him to listen to Sam talk about his 'father' either, but it was something that they both had to accept. Though John was Sam's father, James Hydeker was Sam's _dad_. He was the man Sam remembered. He was the one that had raised him. John and Dean were practically strangers. As much as it hurt him to admit it, it was a truth they both had to face if they were going to build any kind of relationship with Sam now.

"I've been happy," Sam said. "I don't know what life I would have had if I hadn't been taken, but I have had a good one with what I was given. I guess I just want you to know it wasn't all bad. I'm sure it was awful after I was taken, but I don't remember that; I only remember being mostly happy."

Dean smiled, feeling muscles in his face protesting the effort. "We're glad, Sam, really," he said. "It's all we ever wanted for you. The worst part of losing you, aside from missing you in our lives, was knowing the life you never had a chance to live."

Sam looked pensive for a while, and a silence fell that no one broke. Dean looked at Jessica and saw her eyes were fixed on Sam. She looked troubled, as she had for a lot of their conversation. When Sam swallowed hard, she brought up a hand to the back of his neck and Sam's features softened slightly. Dean remembered that. Ever since Sam was a little baby, he would calm when fretful if you rubbed the nape his neck. It was a trick Mary had taught Dean, and he had used it to its fullest advantage when the responsibility of caring for Sam had fallen to him.

Sam nodded once and cleared his throat, and Jessica's hand moved back to her lap.

"What about my mother?" Sam asked. "What happened to her?"

"She died," Dean said sadly. For the first time he wondered how Mary Winchester would react to seeing her children, now men, reunited this way. He had often thought of how she would be ashamed of him for letting Sam go, but what would she feel seeing them together again? She would have to be happy, right?

"What happened?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced at his father and saw he had turned his attention back to Sam instead of staring at the horizon. "She was murdered," he said.

Sam looked shocked. Perhaps he was thinking of the tragic nature of the Winchesters. If Dean had a chance, he would explain how Winchester luck ran in one direction, and it wasn't the good one. It seemed that Sam had escaped that by being taken in by someone new, though the odds of getting captured by vampires were vastly against him, so maybe his wasn't that good either.

Then again, the luck of being taken in by a man like Hydeker was good. Sam had lived a good life with him. He'd said he'd been happy. Dean had to wonder if that happiness precluded all else. Would he want Dean and John in his life now or did he feel that his life was complete already with his father and Jessica to love?

"It was another monster," John said. "We don't know what."

"What happened?" Sam asked again, then at John's wince he said. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business."

"It is," John said forcefully. "She was your mother, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth to speak but Jessica laid a hand on his arm and spoke softly, "Baby…" and he fell silent.

John drew a deep breath and started to speak. "One night, the day you turned six months old, we put you and Dean to bed. Mary was tired, so she went to bed, too. It had been a long day at work and I'd just gotten home, so I went to watch some TV to unwind awhile. I fell asleep watching a movie and the next thing I know, I heard Mary scream. I ran up the stairs and opened the door; I remember that part so clearly as we never closed your bedroom doors when you boys were little. She wasn't in there, but I came to your crib and checked on you anyway. Something drew me to you. Then something dripped on the sheet beside your head, something red. One drop. I touched it and two more drops landed on the back of my hand. I looked up and saw Mary. She was pinned to the ceiling, her white nightgown red across the stomach with blood. She was alive, trying to talk to me, I think. I couldn't breathe and I couldn't stand. I collapsed on the floor, and then the fire started; it started with her. She burst into flame and it spread all over the ceiling. You started to cry, you were so scared, and so I scooped you up and carried you out into the hall. Dean was there, and I did the only thing I could think to do. I put you in Dean's arms and told him to run. He carried you out of that burning house."

' _Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don't look back!'_

Dean heard the words echoing back to him along the years as if John had just spoken them again. He remembered the absolute fear and horror he felt not knowing what was happening, not knowing why his mom wasn't there, too, why his dad was so scared, and the weight of Sammy in his arms.

"I went back into the nursery and… I don't know what I thought I could do, how I could help, but I went back in. It was obviously too late to do anything, and then I heard you crying again. I was so scared for you and Dean. I ran from that burning room, through the hall that was on fire too now, and outside, and there I picked up you and your brother and ran just as the second floor blew out." He drew a heaving breath and fixed his eyes on Sam who was pale and looked nauseated. "That's what happened to your mother."

Jessica shuddered and Sam wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She burrowed against him, and in that moment Dean wished he had someone to hold, too. He had heard that story many times in his life, but it had always been an abbreviated version, the facts, not these new details that tore him apart—Mary's blood dripping into Sammy's crib, her trying to talk, Sam crying.

"You remember it all, every detail," Jessica said, and then quickly put her hand to her mouth. It was as if she didn't know the words were going to escape her until they did.

John nodded. "Until recently, I had only two nightmares in my life. One was the night Mary died, and the other was the night Sammy was stolen from us. I would relive those moments again and again, and every detail burned itself into my mind."

"I am so sorry," Jessica whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah. Thanks." He looked at Sam. "That was what happened to your mother. She was stolen from us just like you were. Only, we'll never find _her_ again."

Sam grimaced. "I'm sorry. I… I just… I'm sorry."

Dean thought he was apologizing for more than Mary's death. He didn't want to delve too deep or to ask about it though, as he was afraid of what he might discover.

"We don't know what did it," Dean said. "We've been looking all these years, along with hunting the Shtriga, but we never found more than whispers and rumors."

"You said I was six months old," Sam said in a small voice. "When's my birthday?"

"May second," John said promptly.

"When do you celebrate?" Dean asked.

"August fifteenth."

John nodded slowly, his face expressionless. Dean didn't have as much control. His hands fisted and he turned away so they wouldn't see his devastation. That was the day Sammy was taken. Unless it was blinding coincidence, Sam had celebrated on the day he was found, which meant that night, as they had searched, Sam was being found by strangers. If they had gone to a hospital, if they had called the cops, they would have gotten him back. It took everything he had not to stand up and walk away, to get away from the pain of the conversation.

"Dean?" Sam said, his voice tentative.

It was only that it was Sam addressing him that made Dean turn to face him. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head and said in a choked voice, "It's not your fault, Sam, none of it. We're the ones that let you down. You could have the best life possible, and we'd be so happy for you, but none of it wipes what happened away. We screwed up, and because of that, we're here now."

"You are here _now_ ," Jessica said. "You've missed all these years, and I can't even imagine how it must feel, but you're together. You have a chance to get to know each other, to build a relationship."

John looked hopefully at Sam, and Dean followed his gaze slowly, scared of what he might see in Sam's expression. But Sam was smiling slightly, thoughtfully. "We do," he said, looking Dean in the eye. "We can try at least."

Dean felt a flame of hope flicker to life in his chest. "Yeah. We can."

* * *

When they eventually parted, after John and Dean had left Sam and Jessica at the park, Dean felt like a thousand pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He stood straight and proud, and the smile that had fixed itself to his face seemed immovable. He couldn't quite believe he had spent the morning with his father and brother. Brother… He was someone's brother again. He wouldn't use the word in front of Sam, he knew he wasn't ready for that, but to himself he could use it all he liked. Sam was his brother. He had his little brother back. He was the eldest again. He had a family to love and protect, not a memory to treasure and a face to guard for in case John thought he saw him again.

They had Sam.

John seemed to be feeling the same way. He was smiling again, not forced or sarcastic and false, but really smiling, happy. Dean couldn't quite believe it was really happening. He was scared someone would come along any moment and burst his bubble of happiness, tell them Sam had changed his mind, that he didn't want to know them after all. But no one came, and Dean's pinches to his leg told him this wasn't a dream. It was real.

As they closed their motel room door behind them, Dean let out a shaky laugh. John turned to him, and Dean saw his eyes were alight with happiness. "You okay, Son?"

"Yeah. I'm great," Dean said happily.

"Good," John said. "Now, you need to make a call."

Dean frowned. "I do?"

"Don't you think Bobby needs to be filled in on what's been happening?"

"Damn," Dean said quietly. He'd forgotten about Bobby. He hadn't spoken to him since that day in the motel when Bobby had advised him to wait. He hadn't bothered to update him at all since.

"Yeah," John said. "You need to make a good apology."

Dean nodded and made for the door again, pulling his phone from his pocket. He hit speed-dial as the door clicked closed behind him and leaned against the hood of the impala as he waited for Bobby's answer.

" _What?"_ he said curtly in his standard telephone manner.

"Bobby, it's me," Dean said.

" _Dean, how are you doing?"_ he asked, his tone softening.

"Good," Dean said. "Real good, in fact."

" _Yeah? What's been happening?"_

"Sammy," Dean said. "Sam, I mean, he's been happening. He came around to talking to us."

" _That's brilliant, Dean!"_

"Yeah, we spent the morning with him and his girlfriend. We talked, and he listened, and it went well. I think we have a real chance at building something with him."

" _I'm so happy for you, Dean,"_ he said uncharacteristically effusively. _"And your daddy? How's he doing with it all?"_

Dean dropped his voice slightly. "He's good. More than that; he's like himself. I didn't know how he'd handle it, and Sam asked some tough questions, but Dad dealt with it all. In a way, it's almost like he's _him_ again."

" _Dean, I don't know what to say."_

"It's so much," Dean said. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up, but it's really happening, and it's down to you. If you hadn't seen the truth of who Sam was, I never would have known, and none of this would be happening. I owe you an apology, too. I acted like an asshole to you, and I had no right. Even if you had been wrong, I already owed you for more than I could ever repay. I won't forget it again."

" _Enough of that,"_ Bobby said gruffly. _"Tell me about Sam. How is he?"_

"He's kinda stunned by it all, I think, and maybe a little scared, but, Bobby, he's grown into the most amazing man. He's everything we could have hoped and more. He has this amazing life and girlfriend, and he's just… good, you know what I mean?"

" _He sounds a lot like his brother to me."_

"No, he's better than me," Dean said quickly. "Really, Bobby, he's amazing."

Bobby laughed. _"I'm sure he is. So, what's the next step? Are you seeing him again soon?"_

"As soon as we can," Dean said. "But we've got stuff to do in town first. We found the Shtriga."

There was a choking sound, and Dean guessed he had caught Bobby while he was drinking. He heard several wheezing breaths, and then Bobby rasped, _"You what?"_

"Yeah, we're pretty sure it's set up shop in the town where Sam's father lives. We're there now."

" _Damn,"_ Bobby whispered then his tone became businesslike. _"Do you need me? Where are you? I'm tearing through the books for Mackey right now, but he can do his own homework if you need me."_

"We're okay," Dean said. "Caleb is on his way over now. We can handle it."

" _Are you sure?"_ Bobby asked. _"'Cause if you need me, I'm there."_

"I'm sure," Dean said. "Really, Bobby. We've been preparing for this for eighteen years, we're ready."

" _Yeah, eighteen years,"_ Bobby agreed. _"All that time you've been building up a storm of anger and hatred for the thing. I'm not saying I blame you, but you have to be careful now more than ever. Anger makes hunters sloppy and hating the thing you're killing makes you impulsive. Take it slow and careful, and take it down. Understand me?"_

"Yeah, Bobby, I know. We will be careful, I promise, but this anger, this is going to help us. We're finding this bastard and killing it."

" _Good. And as soon as you do, you get here so we can celebrate."_

"You know it. I'll see you real soon, Bobby."

" _I'll get a couple bottles in,"_ Bobby promised. _"You take care."_

"I will. Bye."

" _Bye, Dean."_

Dean ended the call and closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the peaceful feeling pervading him.

Only a matter of days later, he had cause to remember Bobby's warnings and reflect that though it had been fear not anger that had driven him, it had ended about as badly as it possibly could have.

* * *

Caleb arrived shortly after Dean finished his call with Bobby, and after filling him in on the situation, John and Caleb set off for the hospital. They were going in as CDC. Dean would have gone, too, but James Hydeker had met him as Dean Aframian, the reporter that had saved Sam's life. He could have gone in with that cover again, but John had argued against it, saying it was weak. Dean agreed, though he wanted to be as much a part of this hunt as he could be. It was personal. It was _The_ _Hunt_. Sitting at the motel and waiting for someone else to do the work felt wrong.

He passed time by calling Ellen and filling her in on what had happened. He also spent some time on the phone with Ash, recruiting him to search down whatever he could on the area and _any_ information he could come up with for the Shtriga.

That only lasted so long though, and he was sitting at the table with the laptop open to a lore page on Shtrigas that gave him no more information than he already had when the door opened and John and Caleb came inside.

Dean looked first to his father for news, and was struck by his expression. Since they had spoken to Sam, John had been happy, incredibly so, but now he looked tired, sad, almost angry.

"What happened?" Dean asked at once.

Caleb cast John a sideways glance and said, "I'm to going to get myself a room and return some calls. You two call me if you need me." He gave Dean a pointed look as he grabbed his duffel from the end of Dean's bed and left the room.

Dean waited until the door had closed behind him and then he turned to his troubled father. "What's wrong, Dad?"

John sat on the edge of Dean's bed and ran a hand over his face. "I met James Hydeker."

"Oh."

"He was good. Told us everything we wanted to know and even arranged for us to speak to a couple of the kids' parents." He shook his head. "He was eager to help us, because he thought we actually had a chance at saving these kids. You can tell how desperate he is to help them."

"That's good, right?" Dean asked. "He's a decent man—a good man for Sam to be raised by."

"Yes," John said curtly. "He's a decent man. Hell, he's a great man. I couldn't have chosen anyone better for Sammy, and I _hate_ it. I hate him. He's a better man than me; he gave Sam a better life than I could have."

"No, Dad…" Dean started, but John overrode him.

"Yes! I'm not stupid. I remember what kind of man I was back then. I know my mistakes. Hell, I was the one that should have been taking care of Sammy that night, Sammy and you, but I wasn't, and that was why that bastard Shtriga got in and took him." He shook his head. "James Hydeker is a good man, and he raised my son to be an even better one, and I hate him for it, because it should have been me. I should have raised you both better. You're an amazing man, Dean, but that's not down to me. That's you yourself, and Mary's nature coming through. I just…" He trailed off. "I hate him, Dean. He's my son's dad, and I hate him."

"That's okay," Dean said softly. "I hate him a little, too."

And he did. James had years of memories of Sam. He had seen him grow into the man he was now. It was unfair that it had been him and not John and Dean that had that. He was a good man, Sam's family, and for that, blameless as he was, they both had good cause to hate him.

* * *

 **So… That's better, right? They're going to see each other again. If it wasn't for the small fact of James being the Shtriga it would be pretty perfect.**

 **I posted the Prologue of a new story today. It's the third piece in the Heaven and Hell verse. I hope you'll give it a look.**

 **Summary:** When Sam and Lucifer are torn apart, Sam must tread a dark path to get him back. How much of the man he loved will be left when Lucifer finally returns? Will his family and lover be able to save him from himself?

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	19. Chapter 18

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing and Gredelina1 for all that you have done in the outlining stage. It's much appreciated.**

 **Thank you all for reading and reviewing, especially my lovely guest reviewer that I cannot reply to personally. I appreciate your reviews and hope you feel better soon xxx**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Eighteen**_

Sam and Jessica were sitting by the lake, each with a beer in hand, listening to the music playing on Jessica's phone.

They'd been back from the park for an hour or so, but neither had ventured into deep conversation. All they'd discussed was whether they wanted to eat and what to do for the rest of the day, ultimately coming to no decision for either question.

Sam rolled his shoulders, feeling the ache of his knotted muscles. He felt that he had a weight pressing down on him, the weight of guilt.

Though they had finished their meeting on a positive note, with promises to see each other again and thoughts of trying to rebuild something, a shadow had seemed to settle over Sam. He wanted to see Dean and John again, he wanted to know more about his life and he wanted to know _them,_ but that knowing came at a cost.

He could either hide it all from his father, tell James nothing of them, pretend he didn't know the truth, or he could be honest as he had been raised to be. One option was easy and would hurt the fewest people, but Sam knew it was also the wrong choice. Sam had been raised better than to hide from difficult situations. He had a dedication to his father that didn't allow for keeping secrets of this magnitude.

The only problem was that he wasn't sure he was strong enough to have that conversation. How could he tell his father that his years of safeguarding and protecting Sam from the truth were wasted?

"You okay, Sam?" Jessica asked.

Sam started out of his thoughts and nodded. "Yeah. I'm… No. I'm not."

"What's wrong?"

"I keep thinking about Dad. I don't know what to do. I feel like I have to tell him I know, but I don't want to hurt him."

Jessica nodded thoughtfully. "I think there's going to be hurt no matter what. If you do tell him, it's going to hurt for you both. But if you don't, it's going to tear you apart. I know you, Sam; you can't hold something in like this for the rest of your life, especially if you're going to see John and Dean again. You'd have to lie every time you spoke to him."

Sam bowed over and his hands came up to his hair. His fingers tangled in the strands and pulled. "Dammit."

Jessica rubbed his back. "You can do it, baby. This morning you did what was probably the hardest thing you'll ever have to do in your life—you faced your past. I am so proud of you for how strong you were, and I know you can be strong a little longer for your dad."

Sam straightened and looked at her. "It's going to hurt him so much."

"Yes," she agreed. "But after, you'll both be stronger for it. There will be no more secrets between you."

"I feel like an asshole," Sam said.

"You're not," she said forcefully. "You're a man that's dealing with something incredible. None of this is your fault. You were stolen from your family by a monster when you were too young to do anything to protect yourself. And you didn't know, Sam. You're not the only one with secrets. James hid it from you all these years."

Sam shook his head. "He was protecting me."

Jessica bit her lip. "That's not all though, is it? He was protecting himself."

Sam felt a burst of annoyance, and he tamped it down. Not quickly enough though; Jessica knew him well enough to spot it.

"Are you angry at me?" she asked.

"No," Sam said hurriedly.

"But you are angry," she stated.

"A little."

"At James?"

Sam started to shake his head, but then he realized she was right. He had been fighting the feeling for a long time, but now it was time to face it. His father had lied to him for years. He had created a story of a mother that had never existed, a history, and a fire to cover the inconsistencies. He didn't doubt James' love for him, but he wished he'd had his honesty, too.

"Yeah," he whispered.

He understood his father hiding the truth from him when he was very young, but why not tell him when he was old enough to understand? Sam was a man now; he should have been told. He was tying himself in knots over the secret of Dean and John, and yet James had hidden them from him for years.

"It's okay to feel that way," she said. "It shouldn't have been hidden from you."

"I feel bad for even thinking it," Sam said.

"You shouldn't. You did so well," she said earnestly. "I am so proud of you, and secrets or no, James would be too. You handled it better than I think anyone else could have. You had so much dumped on you, and you didn't buckle."

"I don't feel like I handled it. I think _they_ did. I think they have for all these years. I've been happy and they've been…"

"Hurting," Jessica said. "Yeah. Dean told me a little about it before, and I think it was harder for him than anything, as John just broke after you were gone. Dean was just a kid and he lost his brother and his father as he knew him at the same time."

"I hate that this happened to them," Sam said, impassioned. "That… monster… tore them apart."

"It tore all of you apart," Jessica said. "Just because you don't remember it doesn't mean you didn't suffer Sam. Don't downplay what you've been through."

"Yeah, but I had Dad."

"And having him was great, but it doesn't mean the Shtriga didn't tear your life apart, too. It's okay to admit that, baby. You're allowed to be angry for yourself as well as them."

Sam shook his head and swiped angrily at the tears that threatened to fall. "It feels like a betrayal."

"To who?"

"To my dad. How can I be angry when I have the most amazing life? He took care of me and loved me, and made me who I am today—hopefully a good person."

"You are a good person, a great one, but that's not all down to James. You've worked hard and taken hard roads when it would have been easier not to. You help people, and that's you, not your dad. Don't undervalue it. And it's okay to be angry about some _thing_ stealing away the life you had and taking you from your family."

"I _hate_ it," he admitted. "It ruined so much. I understand Dean and John spending all these years searching for it, because I feel the same now. I wish I could kill it." It felt like a betrayal to admit, though it wasn't all about him. He didn't regret being raised by James, but he regretted being raised without Dean and John, too.

Jessica considered. "You want revenge. That makes sense. Maybe you can have it."

Sam frowned. "I'm pretty sure I would get myself killed if I tried to go after the thing. Besides, this is their kill, not mine."

"Absolutely. And I don't want you holding a gun for the first time in your life when there's something coming to kill you, but I think you deserve a chance to play a part." She gave him an assessing look. ""How much do you want this, really?"

"A lot," Sam said.

"Then we'll make it happen. First things first, you need to know what you're going after. Wait here." She stood and walked into the house, coming out a minute later with her laptop in her hands. "Let's see what we can find out about it."

"You think we can find information on killing supernatural creatures on Google?" he asked skeptically.

"Yes. I think you can find information on anything online if you look hard enough."

She sat down beside Sam again, flipped the laptop open and turned it on. When she had a webpage loaded, she started typing.

"You've been amazing lately," he said gratefully. "With Dean and John, and now this. Is there anything you won't support me through?"

"Only things that I think will hurt you," she replied. "But all this, Dean and John, finding out about the thing that took you, it's all for the good."

Sam leaned toward her and kissed her gently. "I love you, Jess."

"I love you, too," she said. "Always."

* * *

That night, while Jessica slept peacefully inside, Sam sat by the lake, thinking.

His mind was swirling with thoughts of James, John and Dean, the Shtriga, and the life he would have led had James not found him.

He wondered what he would have been had he stayed with them. Would he be a hunter like them? Would he have joined them in the search for Mary Winchester's killer, or would he have made it to college anyway? He would never know the answers and he supposed it didn't matter. The life he had now was the one that mattered, and it _was_ good.

The moon was high and full in the sky, and Sam wondered idly if there were werewolves prowling the country that night. He didn't even know if they were real; he would have to ask Dean. He wanted to know more about that world—Dean and John's world. The afternoon spent trawling websites for information about the Shtriga had ignited Sam's interest. He thought he knew what there was to know about that particular monster now, but there were who knew how many more creatures out there that he didn't know about.

One thing about the Shtriga that shocked and interested him was that it could look human. He had assumed Dean and John were hunting something that looked obviously supernatural, when in truth it could be anyone they passed on the street. He wondered how they would find it. He would call Dean when it was a decent time of day and see if they could meet again.

After he had spoken to his father that was.

He knew he had to have the conversation with him that he was scared of, because there was no other way for him to have peace. He deserved answers, and James deserved to know Sam was seeing Dean and John and that he knew the secret he had hidden from him for years. Perhaps it would help him to know he didn't have to lie anymore.

As if his thoughts had summoned him, Sam heard the door slide open behind him, and James came out on to the patio.

"Sam?" he said, as Sam turned to face him. "What are you doing out here? It's cold."

"I'm okay," Sam said, smiling at the concern in his father's voice. "Besides, you're out here, too. Are you thinking about the children again?"

"Yes. They're all I seem able to think about at the moment. Them and you, of course. I'm worried about you, Sam. This is the second night I have seen you awake in the middle of the night, and you don't seem like yourself. Please, tell me what's wrong."

Sam sucked in a breath. This was the moment, surely. It was time to come clean.

"Sam?"

"I met some people," Sam said quietly.

"Yes?" he said interestedly. "Who were they?"

"John and Dean Winchester."

The color drained from James' face. He staggered forward and fell into the chair opposite Sam.

Stunned by James' reaction and knowing what it meant, he said, "You know who they are."

"Yes," James whispered. "I remember them."

Sam felt the anger he had fought down for a long time starting to rise within him. James had known them, which meant he had known Sam belonged to them even as he took him as his own son. Why didn't he take him back to the people that loved him?

His face colored. "All this time and you didn't tell me!"

"What did they tell you?" James asked weakly in lieu of an answer.

"Everything."

"Oh." James looked pained and afraid. As he should, Sam thought. It was more than him being adopted and not being told. He'd been taken from his bed by a monster and then kept away from his family by a man that knew better.

Why didn't you tell me?" he asked.

James swallowed hard and said, "I am so sorry, Son."

"Why?" Sam asked again. "I should have known."

James nodded. "Perhaps, but I was afraid you'd hate me. I hate myself."

Sam knew he should say something comforting to reassure his father, but he couldn't find words. The galling reality of Dean and John's heartache was that it was down to James as much as it was the Shtriga.

"I was just a child," Sam said. "Why would you do that to me?"

"I didn't hurt you, I saved you," James said. "When I saw you, alone in that motel room in the night, no one taking care of you, I knew you needed me."

"Wait!" Sam said in a shocked voice. "You took me?" James hadn't just rescued him from the hospital; he had actually _taken_ Sam. There had been no Shtriga there. It had been James. He had torn Sam's family apart in every single way.

James was rambling on, not hearing Sam's question. "And all these years I have tried to do what's right. I have taken care of you, poured all my love on you. I have resisted all this time. I couldn't help it, though. I had to do it. I could tell I was worrying you, and I couldn't bear it. You are everything to me, Sam."

"You resisted?" Sam asked, confused.

"Yes! I went for years denying myself. I did that for you. I let that part of me languish; I thought I could make it go away altogether. I just wanted to be your father. That's all. I just wanted to love you and make you happy, so when I saw I was making you unhappy, I had to feed."

Sam felt like his mind was working in reverse. The words his father was saying made no sense. Except they did—they made impossible, terrifying, horrific sense. It wasn't possible though, was it?

His skin seemed to crawl with repulsion and his stomach rolled. He didn't want to let himself think of it, but he couldn't control it. As fast as he batted the ideas away, they came back.

"I had no choice," James went on. "I had to protect you. I took just one. But that's not how it works. If you feed even once, you have to do it again until the cycle's over. The hunger, the need, it's impossible to deny. I did everything I could, though, to save them. I tried, Sam."

"It can't be you! It can't!" His voice was pleading. His brilliant, beloved, devoted father couldn't be the monster murdering children.

James frowned. "What?"

"It can't be you!"

"I thought… What are you talking about, Sam?"

"I'm adopted," Sam said with a shaky laugh. "That's all. That has to be all. It can't be you." Though it was too late to deny the truth, he felt a desperate urge to try.

James reached across the table and gripped Sam's hands hard. Sam didn't have the will to pull free. "I am so sorry," he said, an admission.

Sam felt dizzy with shock. He wasn't just adopted by a man that knew who he really belonged to; that would have been bad enough. He _was_ stolen by a monster, but the monster was his father. The man he adored, revered, trusted above all others, was the Shtriga. James was the one killing children.

"Please, no," he begged.

"I am sorry," James said again.

"You're the Shtriga?"

James bowed his head. "Yes."

* * *

Dean was lying awake on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could tell from the sounds of his breathing that John was awake, too, but neither of them spoke. Dean guessed John was thinking of James Hydeker again, and the life he had built for Sam without them. Dean was thinking of the same thing, and wishing there was something he could do to change it. Though if there was, if it would change Sam's wonderful life, would he do it? He wasn't sure. He just knew he wished things were different.

He was thinking he should roll onto his side and try to get at least a little sleep when his phone rang. He bolted upright and grabbed it from where it was on the bedside table. He checked the caller ID and saw it was The Roadhouse.

"Hello?"

" _You owe me a beer,"_ Ash's voice drawled through the line.

"You found something," Dean asked, standing and starting to pace the length of the small room. John was sitting up and peering at him.

" _I found the mother-load,"_ Ash replied. _"Open your email."_

Dean rushed to the table and opened the charging laptop. His screen came to life and he quickly started to pull up his email. John appeared at his side and pushed his hands away, taking over the task himself.

"Tell me, Ash,"Dean said impatiently.

" _I've been tracking old Shtriga cases, and I got lucky. I was able to find attacks in Ogdenville, North Haverbrook, and Brockway over the years, but it was Black River Falls in 1893 where we get real lucky. You got that email open yet?"_

Dean glanced at the laptop. A rotating circle showed the email loading. "Almost. Hang on…" The email opened. There was a single work 'Yahtzee' and a photograph of a group of doctors surrounding a bed. "What am I looking at Ash?" Dean asked.

" _So, I was looking at the hospital where your kids are landing after the attacks, and there was a big-ass picture of their star doc on the website, talking about some award he'd been given. I spotted the face again in this picture. Second doc on the right. What do you see?"_

"Second on the right…" Dean murmured as he looked.

John suddenly stiffened. "No!"

Dean saw it too. Captured in the grainy photograph was the familiar face of James Hydeker. "Shit!" he hissed.

" _So, about that beer…"_ Ash said.

"Never mind that!" Dean snapped. "Get me the address of James Hydeker, Klamath Falls, Oregon. Now!"

John was already at the door. Dean stuffed his feet into his boots and raced after him outside to the car, phone pressed to his ear and the clack of keys in the background of the line. He threw himself into the passenger side and waited impatiently as his father brought the engine to life.

" _Got it,"_ Ash said. _"Shore View Place, Lakeside Drive. It's off the highway. What's going on, Dean?"_

"Lakeside Drive off the highway," Dean barked. "Drive fast."

John cast him a scathing look and they roared out of the parking lot.

" _What's going on, Dean?"_ Ash asked again.

"The Shtriga," Dean said. "It's Sam's dad."

John made a low moaning sound in his throat.

He ended the call without a word, dialed again without pause, and put it on speaker. Sam's phone rang three times before a voice answered, but it wasn't Sam.

" _Dean?"_ Jessica's sleepy voice asked. _"It's late. Are you okay?"_

"Where's Sam?" Dean asked.

" _He's not here,"_ she said _. "Hang on."_ There was the sound of movement, a rustle of fabric, and then Jessica said, _"He's outside on the deck with his dad. Huh, it looks like they're arguing."_

Dean's heart skipped but quickly rallied. Sam had lived with James eighteen years, and he'd been safe. There was no reason to believe that would change now except that they were arguing. But this couldn't be the first argument they'd had in their life together. Sam was safe. They just had to get there and he'd be fine.

"Stay where you are, Jessica. Do not leave that room," John commanded.

" _John? What's going on?"_

"Just do as I say," he growled.

"Please, Jess," Dean said, now infected by his father's fear.

" _What about Sam?"_

"He's with his… father," Dean said, the word sticking in his throat like a fishbone. "He'll be fine."

" _You're scaring me,"_ Jessica said.

"If you love Sam, you will do as I say and stay inside," John said firmly.

" _Dean?"_ Jessica said querulously.

"He's right. You have to stay inside. Sam will be fine."

* * *

Sam was horrified. His father, the gentlest man he knew, was a monster, a murderer. He killed children!

"You're a monster," he said, ripping his hands free and standing so fast his chair clattered back.

"I'm not!" James said passionately. "I'm the same man I have always been. I cannot help what I am."

"You kill children!" Sam shouted.

"Not really," James said. "I don't kill them; their body's weakness does. I just take their essence into myself. They are a part of me forever now. They're at peace. They are together. They lie within me and never really die."

Sam felt sick. He stepped backwards, away from James. "Stay away from me," he growled.

"I can't. I love you. You're my son."

"No! I am a stranger's son. You're an animal, not a father."

James' expression crumpled. "Please, Sam."

"I can't… I don't…" Sam's hands came to his head and he grabbed two fistfuls of hair. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He didn't know what to do. He felt he had to get away. He had to breathe. He backed away from his father, but James caught his shoulders and held him.

"Let me go!"

"I never wanted you to know," James said plaintively. "I was protecting us both. I knew you wouldn't understand, that you would see only the monster. And now…" His face was wet with tears. "I can't let you leave."

Sam knew he had to get away. He had to get Jessica and run, but James' grip was strong.

He seemed to be speaking to himself, arguing, and Sam saw madness in his eyes. "I have to," he muttered. "It's the only way. But it's Sam. Yes. Sam. Protect him, always, even from himself. Save him."

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked querulously.

"It's the only way," James said. "You found _them_ now _._ And nothing will ever be right again. They're hunters; they'll never let me live. And you…" His voice became harsh. "You don't understand! I knew you wouldn't. You look at me like I'm some kind of monster now. We can never move on from this. I have to save you, Sam. I have to keep you."

Fear curdled in Sam's gut, and he struggled harder than ever, fighting with everything he had. James' grip on his shoulders floundered, and Sam turned and sprinted toward the house. If he could just get inside, to a weapon, a knife, he might have a chance.

Something caught him around the ankles and he crashed to the floor, scraping his stomach on the wooden decking. He rolled and tried to push James away, but he had straddled Sam's hips, and Sam was unable to buck him off.

James' hands came to Sam's face and he stroked his cheek tenderly. "My dear son," he said. "I never wanted it to end this way, but perhaps it's for the best. I can keep you forever now."

"No! Dad, no!"

James shook his head, looking mournful despite the madness in his eyes. "It's the only way, Sam. This way we will be together always."

Tears brimmed in Sam's eyes and dripped down the side of his face as he shook his head. "I'll stay," he lied. "I won't go anywhere, I promise. You don't need to do this."

"You can't lie to me, Sam. I am your father."

"Please," he begged.

"Shhh. It won't hurt, I promise."

James gripped Sam's jaw and pulled it down inexorably. He opened his own mouth, and Sam felt something warm being drawn from his chest, up his throat. It wasn't painful, but there was a sensation of terrible loss as it happened. He couldn't speak. He fixed his eyes on James and tried to communicate his pleading without words. James was too far gone though. His eyes were closed and a look that was almost blissful was on his face.

The warmth rose to his lips, and bright white light filled his vision. Tears slipped from his eyes, and he realized this was it, he was going to die. He would never see Jessica again; he would never again tell he loved her. He wouldn't have a chance to rebuild something with Dean and John. He would be lost to them. Again.

* * *

The Impala skidded to a halt behind Sam's Ford and they threw open their doors and ran. Dean was in the lead, and he rounded the house first, seeing the horrifying scene ahead of them.

Sam was lying on his back, pinned down by James. Both their mouths were open, and a bright white light was rising slowly from Sam's mouth to James'.

"No!" Dean howled.

James didn't even look at them. He was fixated on Sam completely.

Dean felt something being slapped into his hand, and he looked at saw it was his 9mm Taurus.

"Now!" John said, raising his own gun.

Dean pointed his gun at James and fired off two quick shots at the exact moment John did the same. James bucked as the bullets hit and he slid sideways off of Sam. Dean ran forward, and dropped down beside Sam. His lips were only slightly parted now, and the white light had vanished, but Sam wasn't moving, and when Dean shook him and shouted his name, he didn't respond.

Dean heard a gurgling sound and he saw a hand enter his field of vision. It stroked Sam's face tenderly, leaving a smear of blood in its wake. Dean looked up and saw James looking at Sam with an expression of adoration on his face. "He's mine," he whispered. "He will always be mine."

Dean reached for his gun again, but there was no need. James had spent his last reserves of life. He slumped back on the floor and his eyes stared blindly up at the moon, his chest still.

Sam's eyes snapped open and he drew in a heaving breath. He began to cough, and Dean grabbed him and turned him onto his side so he could breathe easier.

"You're okay," he said gently. "That's it. Deep breaths.

Sam sat up laboriously, his whole body shaking. "Where is he?" he asked in a weak voice.

"He's gone," Dean assured him. "You're safe now."

Sam's eyes moved to the side, falling on James' body. He stared down at it with a stunned expression. As Dean watched, one tear slid down his cheek, cutting a path through the streak of James' blood.

* * *

 **So… That happened. About time, right?**

 **I would love to say the choice to have James look like himself when he is trying to feed was a well-thought out process, but it really wasn't. That's strange, as I usually pick apart every part of an outline and story. I think it's better that he looks like himself to Sam, though, it makes him see his father till the very end.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	20. Chapter 19

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the fab beta job and Gredelina1 for all your help and support. Love you ladies. Thank you all for the reviews and support for the last chapter. It means more to me than I can say.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Nineteen**_

"Or if you prefer, we have a selection of all natural caskets. They are environmentally friendly and fully—"

Sam shook his head curtly, cutting the man off. He couldn't think about the environmentally friendly nature of the box that would hold his father for all eternity. He could barely think of any of it. It was all so wrong.

He should not be doing this. He should be at the lake, studying for the LSAT with Jessica, or fishing, or playing in the boat. He shouldn't be deciding which coffin James would have preferred, which type of wood, which shade, which lining was right for him.

There were so many to choose from: ironwood, mahogany, oak, cherry, pine. And then the 'natural' woven baskets and decorated wood and cardboard even—beautiful scenes of sunsets and spring meadows. He had even seen one with a soccer pitch on it. They would be perfect for some people, but not James.

"Of course, sir. Something traditional then?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly.

They were led over to a different section of the showroom and the assistant started waxing lyrical about the quality of the wood they used and the American craftsmanship.

"This one," Sam said, pointing at a random casket.

"The cherry," the man said. "Wonderful choice, sir. It speaks of your deep respect for the deceased."

"Are you sure, baby?" Jessica asked gently. "There's no rush. We can look some more."

Sam looked properly at the casket he'd chosen. It was as nice as these things could be. Rich red wood and gold fittings. It was fine. What did it matter anyway? James wouldn't care what he was put in. He was beyond caring. He was… Sam didn't know where he was. He knew where the body was, in the funeral home, but his spirit, where was that?

"I'm sure," Sam said, turning away and walking out of the showroom. Once he started walking, it was impossible to stop. He walked right out of the lobby and into the fresh air then carried on right across the street, making two cars screech to a stop and the drivers lean on their horns. He carried right on though.

"Sam!" He heard Jessica's scared voice behind him and he stopped on the sidewalk to wait for her. She weaved through the stalled cars and rushed to his side. She grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard, fear still in her eyes. "You nearly got hit!"

"Sorry," Sam said dully.

She closed her eyes for a moment and when she spoke her voice was soft. "You have to be more careful."

"I will be," Sam said, no conviction in his voice. He was trying, he really was, but he couldn't seem to find the will to care about anything much. He knew Jessica deserved better. She had been amazing throughout all of this and he owed her more then to be this shadow of a man, but he felt so lost; he had ever since he had woken to see his father's body peppered with bullet wounds.

Jessica had taken control then. She had appeared out of nowhere, and enveloped Sam in her arms. She had held him, shushing him as if he was crying. He hadn't been though. Other than one tear shed at the sight of James' body, his eyes had been dry. He thought maybe it was easier this way, as if he started to cry, he wouldn't stop.

She had been the one to come up with the cover story, too. She had sent Dean and John away and called the cops, and when they'd come, she'd told the story of how they'd heard gunshots and found James outside. When the cops had asked for theories of why James had been out alone at night, Jessica wove a story about his insomnia and the calming nature of the lake for him. They'd accepted it all, and after Sam and Jessica had given formal statements, they'd left them alone.

"Come with me," Jessica said, tugging on his arm and leading him through a gate into a small park. She led him to a bench and sat down, waiting for him to do the same before speaking. "I know you're hurting, baby, but you have to take care of yourself. I understand you not being hungry right now, and the sleep thing, but you can't just walk out in front of traffic and expect to not get hurt." She bit her lip. "They won't be there to save you all the time."

Sam stiffened. She hadn't mentioned Dean and John even vaguely since they'd left that night, though Sam was sure she was in contact with them. He heard her on the phone sometimes, and it didn't sound like she was talking to her family or any of their friends. Sam didn't blame John and Dean. To their eyes they had killed a monster, the monster that they had hunted for years. But they had also killed Sam's father.

He saw now, upon reflection of his life and relationship with his father, that James and the Shtriga hadn't been the same person. The Shtriga was the creature inside that James had beaten down for eighteen years, denying. James himself was the man that had loved Sam. Sam had loved him, too. He wished he had been able to hold his anger that night, when James had revealed his other self. He should have handled it better. Perhaps there could have been some other way for it to end but in tragedy.

The one good thing of it was that the children were saved: the ones that had survived that long in the hospital and the ones that hadn't yet been taken. The other doctors believed James' last course of treatment had been successful and that was what had saved them.

Sam knew the truth though. When James had died, their life forces had been returned to them. Dean and John had saved them, and while Sam knew James' death was a fair price for their lives, he wished it wasn't tearing him apart inside to know that.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "It's just I'm scared. I nearly lost you twice now. Don't let there be a third time."

"I won't," he assured, touching her cheek and staring into her eyes. "I'll be okay."

"Promise?"

"I promise." He drew a deep breath, looked back at the funeral home and said, "I can't go back in there, Jess. Can you sort out the details for me?"

"Of course, but there are other things we need to do. They'll want to talk to you about the service arrangement."

"I can't," he said again. "I'm sorry, Jess. Not today. I'll come back tomorrow. I need to get away now."

She nodded. "Okay, baby. I'll fix it." She squeezed his hand. "Stay here, okay?"

Sam nodded and, as she stood and walked away, he fixed his attention on the children playing in the park in front of him—children that Dean and John had protected, children they'd killed someone to save.

* * *

When they got back to the house, there was a new car in the drive beside James' Lexus. It was an SUV and Sam knew who it belonged to. He turned panicked eyes on Jessica and said, "They're early!"

Becky, Zach and Brady had wanted to come to the funeral, and Sam hadn't had a good enough argument to stop them, but they weren't supposed to arrive for a couple days. Sam wasn't sure he could deal with them yet.

"It's okay," Jessica soothed. "I'll talk to them. They can get a place in town to stay. You don't have to see them till you're ready."

"No," Sam said. "That's dumb, and rude. There are plenty of rooms here for them. I just need a minute to get my head together is all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sam said even though his mind screamed no.

"Give me a few minutes. I'll go get them set up in rooms and you can sit out back a while if you like."

"Thank you," Sam said with obvious sincerity.

"Anything you need, Sam, always" she said.

She got out of the car and Sam sank lower in his seat. He knew he would have to face them soon, but he needed just a little longer before that happened. He needed to get his head on straight, or at least as much as he could.

He waited five minutes and then climbed out of the car and walked around the side of the house to the backyard. The seats were pushed back from the table which made him think that was where his friends had waited for his and Jessica's return.

He took one of the chairs and turned it toward the lake and sat down, staring out at the light glinting off the rippling water. It was strange, he thought, that the lake brought him comfort and something resembling peace now, when it was the setting of the worst moment of his life.

He could remember other things about the place though. He remembered drinks shared with his father out here, he remembered fishing with him off the jetty, he remembered kayaking and taking out the small motorboat together. His father _lived_ out here for Sam.

The door slid open behind him, and he didn't bother to look as he was sure it would be Jessica, but then a beer was held out to him, and he saw it was Brady. "Hey, man," he said.

Sam took the proffered beer and nodded. "Hey."

Brady pulled a seat around beside him and said, "Jess thinks we should leave you alone. She thinks that'll be best for you, but I know better."

"I really think..." Sam started, but Brady spoke over him.

"I know what a brain like yours can do to you, Sam. I know you can't switch it off, which means you're out here over-thinking and suffering."

"You know a lot," Sam said.

"I do. I also know Jess has been tying herself in knots trying to make this right for you, and I also know there is no making it right. And," he said heavily, "I also know you haven't cried yet."

Sam frowned at him." Did Jess tell you that?"

"No, I just know you and how you operate."

Sam sighed. "I really don't want to talk about this, Brady."

"Yeah, but I think you need to. Your whole world just got turned on its head. You're a talker, Sam, so talk."

Sam huffed a laugh. It was true his world had been turned upside down. In fact, that had happened three times in as many days. He had found out he was adopted, that was enough to deal with, especially as his blood family was there and desperate to build something with him. Then he'd found out the monster that had stolen him as a child was actually the father he loved, too. And then... the monster had been killed, and his father with it, in the process of it trying to kill Sam. That was just too much to deal with.

"I just found out I was adopted," he said. "My dad took me in when I was four, and I didn't know."

"Whoa!" Brady said. "That's some pretty heavy shit."

"Yeah. I met my birth father for the first time a few days ago. I'd already met my brother; he was the one that saved me when I was snatched."

"That Dean guy? He's your _brother_?"

"You know him?"

"I met him at the hospital when you were brought in," he said. "He seemed… interesting."

"He's a good man," Sam said. "They both are."

"Ahh," Brady sighed. "And that makes this whole situation a whole lot more complicated, doesn't it? You meet them and now your dad is dead and you feel like you betrayed him."

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, man, I can't say I know how you're feeling, because I've never been in your situation. I know one thing, though. Your dad loved you. He wouldn't want you to feel guilty now."

If only that were true, Sam thought. James might not mind him seeing his birth family. He might understand that. But the hunters that killed him? No, he surely couldn't forgive that, even though they hadn't been killing the man but the monster.

"You don't think so?" Brady asked.

"He loved me," Sam said. "But I don't know whether he would want me to see them again."

Brady took a draw on his bottle of beer and said, "Then don't. Give yourself a break for a while. They're not going anywhere, are they? Let yourself grieve your dad, and maybe then see about expanding your family again. There's no rush, Sam."

"It'll hurt them," Sam said.

"Yeah, but, harsh as it may sound, that's not your problem. They have to take care of themselves and you have to take care of you. Do what you've got to do, Sam, for yourself and your dad."

Sam swallowed hard against the pain. It was the loss of both his families that was hurting him now. He couldn't be true to James and grieve if he was true to Dean and John, too. He had to be no man's son for a while to grieve his father before he could move on and try to rebuild anything new.

* * *

"We shouldn't be here," Dean whispered, not for the first time.

"It was your idea," John reminded him.

"And it was a bad one. You should have talked me out of it."

"Don't you want to see him?"

Dean just glared at his father. Obviously he wanted to see Sam. It had been days and other than Jessica's reassurances that she was taking care of him, they'd not heard news of nor seen Sam. They were both worried, and when Dean had floated the idea that they try to check up on him at the funeral, John had agreed readily.

But now that they were there, he realized it was some kind of sick joke that they were attending the funeral of the man they'd killed. Except, he wasn't a man. Dean kept reminding himself of that. He was a Shtriga, the creature that had killed countless children over the years; the creature that had torn Sam from their side and their lives apart. It was easier to remember that when they were alone in their motel, but across the street from the crowd of people surrounding the church entrance, it was impossible to forget that to these people, James Hydeker was a good doctor and man. There were more people than Dean had ever seen at a funeral in his life. The church was packed and there was a man at the door turning people away from trying to enter. It looked like most of the town had turned out. There were even speakers set up outside the church, ready to transmit the service for those that couldn't get in.

"What the…?" John sucked in a breath, and Dean followed his gaze to the front of the church.

"Aw, man, that's just sick," he said quietly.

There were two women guiding a group of children to the church and lining them up each side of the entrance in an honor guard. It was among the most messed up things Dean had ever seen. The man had killed these children's classmates, friends maybe, perhaps some of them had even been among the victims that survived, and they were honoring his life.

"Sammy," John said then, pulling Dean from his disgusted thoughts as the chatter across the street died down. There was a black hearse driving slowly up the street, followed by a black sedan. The hearse pulled up in front of the church, and the sedan stopped behind it.

The door opened and Jessica climbed out, looking beautiful but sad in her modest black dress. She stepped away from the car and Sam climbed out. He looked terrible. Dean groaned at the sight of him. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't this. Had he not been upright and conscious, Dean would have believed his life force had been stolen from him after all. His pallor was obvious even at the distance, and the way he held himself was wrong. He was hunched over, slumped, as if he was carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders. Dean was instantly scared for him.

Sam looked up and down the street and his eyes fell on Dean and John. His mouth dropped open for a moment, and then Jessica slipped her hand into his and said something. He turned his attention away from them and nodded.

"We shouldn't have come," John said regretfully.

Dean nodded his agreement, not reminding his father he had been saying that a while now. Neither of them walked away though. They were trapped by Sam's appearance.

They watched silently as the coffin was unloaded from the hearse and lifted onto the shoulders of six waiting men. The whole crowd fell respectfully silent at the sight of it. The coffin was carried through the young honor guard into the church. Dean noticed Sam looked shocked when they passed the children, and he guessed whoever had arranged it, it wasn't him or Jessica.

Sam disappeared inside, Jessica walking at his side, and then the speakers crackled. A hymn played and then a voice Dean didn't know started came to scratchy life. "We are here today to say goodbye to James Hydeker, doctor, preserver of life, and above all, devoted father."

John shook his head angrily, turning away and walking along the street. Dean followed him, knowing his father needed him more in that moment than Sam did. They reached the spot they'd parked the Impala, and they both climbed in.

"Father!" John spat.

Dean didn't say anything. He knew John needed his silence to vent into.

"That thing wasn't a father. He was a kidnapper and murderer. He stole Sam from us and then lied to him every day of his life. I _hate_ him," he said passionately. "He killed children, and there they have them lining the damn path for his coffin. And Sam! Did you see him? He's a wreck, and it's all because of that monster."

"I saw," Dean said quietly. "And I'm with you, Hydeker was a monster, but he was a monster Sam loved."

"God damn him to hell," John spat. "If he's ruined my son, I'll…"

Dean knew there was no threat left. They had killed him already. He was beyond their reach of revenge. The only thing they could do now was hope Sam would come back to them.

* * *

They'd been back at their motel a few hours when there was a knock at the door. Dean stood and made to open it, expecting housekeeping, as Caleb had left days ago. He was stunned therefore to see Sam and Jessica standing on the threshold.

"Sam!" he said, and John lurched to his feet from the table he had been sitting at.

"Hey," Sam said dully. "Can we come in?"

"Of course," Dean said, practically falling over backwards to allow him access.

"Sit down," John said, pulling back a chair for Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said taking the seat.

Jessica refused the chair Dean offered and stood beside Sam, her hand on his shoulder.

"What can we do for you?" John asked, sitting opposite and leaning forward slightly.

"I saw you today," Sam said, "at the funeral."

"We weren't meaning to be disrespectful," Dean said hurriedly. "We just wanted to see you."

Sam nodded slowly. "I get that. And I understand, which is why I feel like such an asshole saying this."

"Say it," John encouraged. "Whatever you need, Sam."

Sam closed his eyes a moment, and Jessica squeezed his shoulder. "I need you to go," he said.

John couldn't keep the quick indrawn breath from Sam's notice. It made both Dean and Sam wince.

"I'm sorry," Sam said mournfully. "I know it's unfair, after everything you did for me, but I can't..."

"It hurts," Jessica supplied.

"Yes," Sam said, seizing on the words. "I feel like I'm being burned all the time. I feel raw, and I can't think of anything but him. And when I see you... I see..."

 _The people that murdered my father._ The words were unspoken but they were clear for the room to hear regardless.

For a moment, Dean felt anger surge. They had murdered a monster. But then the reminder he had spoken to John mere hours ago came to him: he was a monster Sam had loved. The anger seeped out of him. It galled him that Sam felt that way, but it made a sick kind of sense. Sam had eighteen years to love his father, and less than an hour to see what he really was before he was killed.

"Okay, Sam," he said gently. "We'll go."

John's gaze snapped to him and Dean narrowed his eyes in warning.

"Just for a little while," Sam said. "I just need a little time."

"Of course," Dean said. "Whatever you need."

"It won't be forever, will it?" John asked, seemingly in spite of himself.

"No," Sam said. "Just a little time.

"Thank you," John said quietly.

Sam turned and looked up at Jessica. She seemed to communicate something with him without words, and Sam said. "I do still want to try."

Dean smiled. "Good. Whenever you're ready, we'll be waiting."

Sam looked into his eyes, and Dean saw Sam's were wet.

"Thank you," Sam said, standing. "I should go." His voice was choked. Jessica took his hand and they walked to the door. Dean remained still, watching him leave.

As the door closed behind them, John stood quickly and made for the window. Dean followed him and looked out through the thin net curtain. Sam and Jessica were standing a few feet from Sam's car, enclosed in each other's arms. Sam was shaking against Jessica. When Dean listened carefully, he heard the sobs through the thin glass barrier between them.

"Oh, Sammy," he said.

"It's not forever," John reminded him.

"No," Dean agreed. But however long it was, it would hurt, knowing Sam was suffering, too, and he couldn't help him, because being close to them hurt him.

* * *

 **So… Don't hate me okay. It's not forever, and it's what Sam needs. I promise to get them together again very soon.**

 **Until next time...**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	21. Chapter 20

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for your work on this chapter, Gredelina1 for all your help and advice, and you all for reading and reviewing.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty**_

Sam hadn't realized how much work went into settling an estate like James'. There were letters to be read, forms to be filled out, papers to be signed, and an endless stream of meetings with lawyers, accountants and advisers

Sam started out trying to do it all alone, but he quickly realized things were going to slip past him if he didn't get help. He didn't have time to read the sheer number of documents that were presented to him, so he called on Zach to help. He was already in Law School at Stanford, and thus, he knew a great deal more about estate law than Sam or Jessica had ever touched upon. He took every paper and letter Sam was supposed to sign or read and checked them over for him, leaving Sam free to meet people and deal with smaller parts of the inheritance, like deciding what to do with the house.

Sam loved the lake house, he always had, but he wasn't sure maintaining it when he wouldn't be living in it for years was sensible. Even after college, neither he nor Jessica saw themselves settling in Klamath Falls for good. Though he could easily afford to keep it, he thought perhaps it was better to let it go.

One thing he was eager to find out about was the fund James had said they possessed for helping the homeless. He hadn't forgotten Rick, living outside the hospital. He wanted to help him and people like him more than ever now.

He was wandering the house during the early hours, a couple weeks after James' funeral, while Jessica and the others slept, when he found himself scaling the steps to the attic. He had an unformed idea in his head that he would explore some of the childhood mementoes that he knew James had stored there.

There were neatly labeled boxes with Sam's name and a date on them. He dragged one to the middle of the room where there was a space and sat down cross-legged to investigate the contents. It was from the late eighties, soon after Sam had been taken in, and he was curious to see what there would be of the time he had no real memory of.

Dust tickled his nose as he took the lid of off the box and set it aside. It had obviously been a long time since James had looked inside. Sam realized as he did, that the last person to touch these things was his father. It made him pause a moment to think. These were things James obviously treasured. Was it a good idea to look at them now knowing what he did?

His hands seemed to make the decision for him. They reached inside and pulled out a small bundle of fabric. Sam spread it out on his lap and saw it was a t-shirt with a cartoon picture of Scooby Doo on the front. It was well worn and Sam guessed it must have been a favorite of his. He refolded it and set it on his knee, not wanting to get it dirty on the floor. The second thing he found was a report card from first grade. Sam read down the list of grades with a small smile and then his eyes fell on the teacher's note at the bottom: _Sam is adjusting well. He makes good effort in all classes, but sometimes struggles to form bonds with classmates._

Sam wondered about that. Was it natural shyness that made him reticent or was there a deeper meaning? Was he still struggling without his brother at that age? Did he still remember his other family?

He delved into the box again and found a small photo album. He flipped through it, seeing his young face captured on glossy paper. He recognized some of the pictures as he had seen copies around the house before, but some were new. There was one of him sitting at a piano, his fingers held over the keys and a concentrated look on his face. He remembered the piano lessons as they went on into his teens. He hadn't enjoyed them, but he had persisted, as he'd seen how much joy they brought his father. He had been competent after years of practice, but he had no flair for the instrument. Eventually, James had stopped the lessons and Sam had started playing soccer instead. James had come to every home game, Sam remembered, and had cheered from the stands.

He looked around the vast space, wondering if there were mementoes of his soccer days saved in there, too. He saw a box that would be from the right period, and crawled over to it. His hand was on the box when he spotted something behind it that caught his eye. It was a wooden chest he'd never seen before. It was ornate and quite beautiful, rich mahogany wood with brass hinges and clasp. It was surely James'.

For a moment, he hesitated, not wanting to violate his father's privacy, but curiosity got the better of him. He sat in front of it and opened the lid. It was full of books. There were various sizes and shapes, and each spine was stamped with a year. They were journals. Sam thumbed over the years, his heart racing. There were so many, and when he shifted some, he saw there was another layer beneath. The date of the oldest went back to _1841_.

Sam sagged back. It had occurred to him that James was older than he had appeared, because that was the nature of the Shtriga that infected him, but 1841 was over a century and a half ago. If they were James', as Sam suspected, it meant he had died over 150 years old. With numb fingers, Sam pulled out the first journal and felt the weight of the worn leather in his hand.

Something within him shouted not to do it, to put the journal back where it belonged and ignore it, but a greater voice advised that these pages would hold the answers Sam deserved. He turned the first page and saw in neat copperplate script: _The Diary of James Hydeker the First. 1841._ Sam sucked in a breath. It was James'. He really was that old. Carefully, Sam turned the page and saw the first entry. He started to read.

 _ **January 1st, 1841 – London, England.**_

 _Today I finally took audience with Charlotte's son, Richard. I had no expectations for the meeting. What draw can a child of only four years offer me, I thought. I was mistaken though. He is an engaging child. He was obviously nervous, primed on the importance of the meeting by his mother, but he was articulate and intelligent, and I found him surprisingly interesting. He played piano for us while we took tea, and I was grudgingly impressed by his talent. Music is a skill I myself do not possess, but I have heard much worse renditions of Mozart played by adults. All in all, I think I could grow to like him. And now I have met her son, Charlotte agrees the wedding can be set for a month from now._

Sam sucked in a shocked breath. His mother had been called Charlotte—the mother James had always told him about at least. When Sam had realized he had belonged to John and Dean first, he had assumed Charlotte was a fabrication, too, like the first four years of his life. But she had been a real woman, James' wife from a century and more ago, a woman he'd loved. At least that part hadn't been a lie. And England. James had told him they had English ancestors, but apparently it was James himself that had lived there. And Richard. Was he James' first son? A child he cared for?

He flipped over a handful of pages and then read more.

 _ **February 1st, 1841– London, England.**_

 _I write quickly tonight as Charlotte sleeps. The wedding was a society success. Charlotte was thrilled. The Lord and Lady Carnarvon came even. We have solidly taken our place among the great and good of London as a pair now._

 _Richard was unwell, but he was stalwart through the service before his nanny took him home to rest. I could grow to care for that child._

Sam picked up a new journal and flipped through the pages until something caught his attention.

 _ **May 27th, 1843– London, England.**_

 _Richard is waning. Consumption, the doctor says. I don't know how to tell Charlotte. She is devoted to that child, as am I myself. It seems so wrong that a child so gifted and with so much to offer the world is being stolen away from us by foul human weakness. Had I but the ability, I would sustain him as I do myself. Richard deserves life more than the nameless, faceless urchins out there on the streets._

The book dropped from Sam's nerveless fingers. James was prepared to kill other children to save Richard. It was galling. Had he decided to take Richard into himself the way he had tried to with Sam, he could maybe have understood, but murdering children… And it wasn't the Shtriga talking there; it was the man. The Shtriga was the one that murdered, not James, wasn't it?

He had to know if he had done it. He picked up the book and read on, flipping through the pages until he came to four lines written in a shaky hand:

 _ **June 4th 1843 – London, England.**_

 _Richard died today._

 _I should have acted sooner. Perhaps there would have been a way to exchange a life._

Sam swallowed hard against the nausea. James hadn't killed for Richard, but he regretted it. It was sickening. That wasn't the Shtriga. It was the man that mourned and the man that thought he should have acted sooner. How could that be the same man Sam had loved? It seemed impossible. Yet it was there on paper, proof that James had been _willing_ to kill other children.

 _He was grieving,_ a voice whispered to him. _He didn't mean it._

"Yes!" Sam whispered, seizing on the excuse. Of course James didn't mean it. He had just lost the child he loved. People say and do strange things in grief. Sam understood as he was still clutched in the agonizing hands of his own loss.

He picked up a diary at random, looking for proof that his father had been better than he seemed in the last entry, and skimmed to the back.

 _ **December 23rd 1848 – Edinburgh, Scotland.**_

 _Christmas time has come again and my trials are over. Today I completed my education at the great Edinburgh Medical School. I am now a trained physician. Though my decision to study and educate myself was partly a form of diversion as I passed time, I have learned more than I thought possible. Though I have not learned how I could have saved Richard, which was a part of my motivation for choosing medical school, I do know the real name of what killed him now: tuberculosis. A word that doesn't take into account the breadth of the misery it causes. There is no cure, and I doubt there ever will be, even with the powerful advances in medicine I have seen in my long life. Children and adults alike will continue to die from this blight throughout my endless years._

Sam stared at the page. It hadn't made him feel any better, but it hadn't made him feel any worse either. He'd always assumed James became a doctor to save lives, but it seemed it had started as a way to pass time. Sam supposed when you were 'endless' it was hard to pass time without being bored. He reminded himself that, no matter what the reason for it, his education had saved countless lives over the years. But that didn't cancel the debt of the lives the Shtriga had taken.

He thought perhaps he should stop reading, some sense telling him that sooner or later he would read something that would really upset him, but he couldn't until he had read one more. He wanted to know what James had been thinking when he had taken Sam.

 _ **July 15th 1987 - Fort Douglas, Wisconsin.**_

 _The most amazing thing happened tonight. I found Richard!_

 _I cannot write long, as he could wake again any moment; I only gave him a light sedative. I didn't like to give any at all, but it was necessary to stop the noise. He screamed incessantly for someone called Dean, I assume that is the brother, and his 'dad'. I know it's not his fault that he doesn't remember me, as despite the resemblance and shared soul, he is a new person, but it still galls._

 _He was being cared for by the Winchester oaf that was hunting me. Though 'cared for' isn't the correct description. He had been left alone in a motel of ill repute, without even the sought for Dean to protect him. He can be no older than four years old and he was left alone! What kind of parent does that?_

 _I had gone in to feed from him, a lesson and distraction for the hunter, but as soon as I saw him I knew I couldn't. He is Richard reborn; every feature is exact, even those mysterious eyes that had entranced me before. I haven't been able to speak to him properly yet, as he is upset, but I know when I do that he will be as eloquent and intelligent as he was before._

 _He is stirring. I must go._

Sam slumped, his hands dropping to his lap with shock. Richard! He had been taken because he bore resemblance to the child James had loved all those long years ago. His young life had been torn apart because of some twist of fate in how he looked.

And Dean. He was crying for Dean and John, and James had sedated him. That wasn't the man he had known and loved, though he'd never believed the man he'd known and loved would steal Sam from his bed either.

He lifted the book again and began to read the next entry.

 _ **July 19th 1987 - DeWitt, Arkansas.**_

 _I am sick of hearing the name Dean being cried at me day and night. The journey from Wisconsin was filled with it. It's unending and I cannot stand it. I have tapered off his sedative now because I was worried it would become a problem, but I am close to restarting it. I need to find a way to break that connection in his mind. He needs to understand that I am who matters now. He is mine._

Sam's mouth dropped open. It couldn't be his father that had said those things, except it was. He had claimed Sam. He wanted to wipe John and Dean from his mind.

 _ **August 1st 1987 – DeWitt, Arkansas**_

 _I have solved the problem, or at least a part of it. I told Sam that Dean and his father have died. His reaction was intense and heartbroken, but the voluble part seems to be over for now. At present he lies curled in his bed, quietly crying._

 _I was surprised he knew what dead meant straight away. I suppose it is something to do with his mother's absence. He seems to understand that death means never to return._

 _It's all for the good as far as I am concerned, as I am sure Richard's nature lies beneath the surface. When he has grieved and accepted that I am his lot now, he will settle and become the child I know he really is. When this period of mourning is over, we will be free to build a life together._

Sam felt sick. He had been told they died? No wonder he didn't remember them. They had been erased from his life physically and mentally. What was there to hang onto when he thought they were gone forever? It was cold, cruel, and calculating, and he never would have believed James capable of it.

He felt that he should stop reading, but he couldn't stop himself from picking up the next diary and skipping to the middle of the book. He wanted to know what was happening to him a year after he was taken. He skimmed entries of little interest until he saw a page in which the handwriting was less steady where James had written in excitement.

 _ **June 1st 1988 – DeWitt, Arkansas**_

 _Sam called me dad today!_

 _It feels like the first great success in our new life together and last piece of John Winchester being laid to rest. He fell from the climbing frame in the park and it was to me he looked when he called, "Dad, help!"_

 _I feel like I have finally achieved something between us. If only I could banish Dean as easily. He doesn't speak about him anymore, I don't think he even truly remembers him in his waking hours, but sometimes he cries his name in sleep._

 _The name Dad changed something in me, too. Sam became more than a challenge to be faced. He became a child I could one day call my true son the way I had Richard._

 _I have a feeling great things await us now._

 _ **July 21st 1995 – Chicago, Illinois.**_

 _I saw John Winchester today. I am in Illinois for a medical conference while Sam is at summer camp, and he walked right past me on the street. I haven't thought of him or Dean in years, not since Sam stopped crying for them in sleep, but I knew him at once._

 _He is a wreck of a man._

 _He seemed to have aged decades since I saw him last and his face was hopeless as you only see in the grieving. The idea that all these years later he is still hurting brings me a kind of pleasure. He dared to hunt me, and I dared to take his son from him. The success belongs to me. Sam is my son now in every way but blood. He calls me dad, father, and seems to have no memory of any other life but ours together. Sam is my son now, and I love him more than anything or anyone in the world. He is my everything._

Sam wiped a hand over his face. His father loved him. He had never doubted it in his life until he started to read the journals. He had been loved, but by what kind of man?

James had found pleasure in John's suffering. He had been prepared to kill to save Richard. He had stolen Sam away from his family and told him they'd died. How could a man like that love, too?

He reached for the last journal in the line, but then realized it was the wrong one. The most recent, the one he wanted to read, wasn't there. It must still be in James' room.

He pushed himself to his feet. His knees protested the movement after so long folded, and he rubbed at them idly before moving to the steps and descending them.

The house was still quiet, and the sky outside the windows was barely lightening. Sam crept past his and Jessica's room and went into James' study. He hadn't entered it since his death, and the air felt musty. He left the door open to freshen the room and went straight to the desk.

There were three drawers in the handsome oak desk and Sam tried them each in turn. In the first were papers and charts that looked like hospital business. Sam moved to the next and found more papers. The third was the one he needed. There was a leather-bound journal much like the ones he had found in the attic. He picked it up and then gasped as he saw the framed image beneath. He pulled it out with shaking fingers and set it down on the desk. It was a miniature portrait of a child. It could have been Sam, the faces were so alike. But Sam could tell from the obvious age of the image and the old-fashioned clothing that it must be Richard. He looked around six or seven, and the resemblance to Sam's own face was eerie. They could have been twins.

He dragged his eyes from the portrait and opened the diary. It felt weighty in his hands, as if he knew it carried more than mere words. It held truth too.

 _ **June 14th 2005 – Klamath Falls, Oregon.**_

 _I am feeding. It was because of Sam that I started again. He was worrying for me as the hunger made its effects known. I cannot bear to worry the son I love, so I crept out and fed._

 _I forget in the years between how good it feels to be sated. The memory of the lives brimming inside of me and sustaining me fades, and it becomes easier to imagine myself human. But now I am fed, not yet sated; I'm just starting out and getting a taste of them._

 _The last, a brother to a previous feeding, was sleeping when I entered and didn't wake until it saw me. It was just like Sam: the look of confusion followed by fear. I was carried back through the years to that wondrous night when I found him, them, again. This child had no brother to call for though as he had already been rushed to the hospital and my care the day before, and he lay frozen as I took from him._

 _Now I feel that new life inside me, brimming over with the potential and possibility that now belongs to me. Life is good._

 _Sam and Jessica are still here. Sam seems less concerned for me now that I am feeding again, not that he can ever know the true reason why. My son would never understand. I know him well. He loves the man I pretend to be. He would never be able to accept the Shtriga I am. He would leave me, and I couldn't bear that._

 _There is no reason my beloved son should ever know._

Sam felt his breath coming in rasps. Those words had come from his father's pen, his thoughts and feelings about what he was doing tempered with expression of love.

He began to cry in earnest, gasping sobs that ripped from him.

That was James _and_ the Shtriga, they were one and the same. Sam had been wrong; there was no difference between them. He _had_ loved a monster after all. He was mourning a child killer. How was that possible? How could he have been so blind?

There was movement at the door and Jessica rushed to his side. "Oh, baby," she said, her eyes moving between Sam's tearstained face and the diary on the desk.

Sam raised his wet eyes to her and said, "He was a monster!"

Jessica's mouth twisted into a moue of regret and she nodded slightly. "I'm sorry."

Sam realized then what she had hidden all along—she had known what James was where Sam had been blind. All the time he'd been grieving for a creature that killed and didn't care, she had supported him and loved him, but she had known what he cried for. She had seen where Sam was blind.

He pushed back his chair and she settled on his lap, pulling his face into her neck and soothing him gently with words and caresses as he cried. He wasn't mourning a father now or monster; he was grieving the life he should have had with John and Dean, the one that had been stolen from him by a creature that had never truly loved him in return.

* * *

Long hours later, Sam picked up his phone and, with Jessica's hand on his shoulder, squeezing, comforting, he dialed and waited for the call to be picked up on the other end. It was answered after only a few rings and the voice that answered was confused but slightly hopeful.

"Sam?"

"Dean, I need to see you," Sam said quietly. "Both of you."

"Of course," Dean said quickly. "Just tell me where…"

Sam opened his mouth to speak and a sob came out. Jessica plucked the phone from his hand and said, "We're in Oregon still. Can you come?"

Sam didn't hear anymore. Tears had overtaken him again, except these weren't tears of sadness or grief for James, they were tears of grief for himself, Dean and John, and everything they had missed.

* * *

 **So… Sam knows. This is the final version of what started out a very different chapter. Originally, James was a kind of psychopath that cared for Sam only as a possession not son. I realized that was wrong though. James did love Sam as he had loved Richard. He was a child killer and monster, but a father, too.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	22. Chapter 21

**Thank you Jenjoremy for working your magic on this chapter for, Gredelina1 for always being there for me, and you all for following me this far.**

 **We're coming to the end of Part One now. There are two more chapters after this, but there is Part Two written, too. I am not sure yet if I will continue to post under this title or if I will list it as a second story. If you haven't already, perhaps add me to author alerts so you get a notification if I post separately.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty-One**_

John came into the room with a half-full ice bucket in his hands. "I got all they had," he said, setting it down on the table. He went into the bathroom and came back a moment later with a clean towel. He made a rudimentary ice-pack and held it out to Dean where he reclined on the bed.

"Thanks, Dad." He brought it slowly to his face and placed it on his injured eye. The shock of the cold cut through him and then there was a sensation of relief as the coolness leached away the pain and numbed the area.

"How are you feeling?" John asked.

"Concussed," Dean admitted. "I'll be okay."

John frowned. "Do you want to go by the hospital and get checked out?"

Dean could tell that was what John wanted him to do, but he couldn't face it himself. There was nothing they could do for him in a hospital that he couldn't do for himself. They would poke and prod and investigate the damage, and Dean had experienced enough head injuries to know this wasn't a bad one. He just needed to ice it and rest.

"How are you?" he asked his father.

John probed his injured jaw. "I'm okay. It barely grazed me. It was saving itself for you and the plate throwing."

Dean huffed a laugh. "It was pretty damn good at it, too."

They had come to Washington for a haunting case. The now salted and burned spirit of a man called Charles Bardwell had taken to attacking people that were daring to rent his cabin from his surviving children for vacations in the shadow of Mount Olympus.

They'd assumed the most complicated part of the hunt would be getting together enough cash to rent the overpriced lodging behind which Charles had been buried. They were wrong. Despite only having been deceased a few years, the ghost had powerful anger and therefore abilities. He'd cuffed John across the jaw when he'd prepared to disperse it with his shotgun and while John had been distracted, he'd started pelting Dean with dinnerware. That had only been reasonably painful until one had caught Dean on the head, touching on the corner of his eye. Pain had exploded in his head and his vision in the left eye had swum for a while, scaring Dean with the idea that it had done serious damage. It had cleared on the ride away from the cabin though, and by the time they were booking a motel in the next town, having dispatched of the remains, it had cleared. He was pretty sure it was going to blossom into a spectacular bruise though. Another bruise for another hunt.

"Want a drink?" John asked.

"Probably better not to," Dean said with a grimace. He was feeling a little nauseous and he knew from experience how painful it was to throw up when your head was already pounding.

"I meant coffee," John said.

"I know," Dean said with a smile. "But I think I'll pass anyway."

John's propensity for alcohol binges had disappeared recently. He still had a drink with Dean occasionally, but even then it was usually a single beer. Now that he wasn't living on a knife-edge of anxiety, grief, and fear all the time, he didn't need the sedative it provided. In fact, John was doing better than he had since before Mary's death. He was a father again in almost every way, not just focused on protection. He was engaged. He was caring. He was a dad.

Their situation wasn't perfect, they didn't have Sam with them, but they had hope now where they hadn't for years. They had seen Sam, spoken to him, answered his questions. He was alive, he wasn't in danger, he was grieving but okay. He'd said he still wanted to build something with them, and that was more than they'd dared hope for before they'd all met together weeks ago. They had waited eighteen years for this; they could wait a little longer.

John was fumbling with the unfamiliar coffee maker when Dean's phone rang. He picked it up from the bedside table and his mouth dropped open and the icepack fell from his nerveless fingers as he saw the caller ID.

"It's Sam," he breathed.

John's head snapped around so fast Dean thought he would crick his neck. "Answer it!" he commanded.

Dean connected the call on the third ring, and said, "Sam?" He wasn't able to completely keep the hope from his voice.

The voice that spoke was quiet and hoarse, as if he had strained it. _"Dean, I need to see you. Both of you."_

"Of course," Dean said quickly. "Just tell me where."

There was a choked sob in response. Dean's heart ached as there was a shuffle on the line. "Don't cry," he said, heartbroken. "Please, Sam."

Jessica's voice answered instead of Sam. _"We're in Oregon still. Can you come?"_

"Yes," Dean said quickly, waving his father into silence as he was demanding to know what was happening. "We're in Washington, so we can get there by tonight."

" _Thank you, Dean,"_ Jessica said, her tone obviously heartfelt. _"Call when you're here, and we'll arrange something."_

"We will. Jess, take care of him for me," he said.

" _I'll do it for us all,"_ she promised.

They exchanged goodbyes and Dean lowered the phone.

"What's happened?" John asked at once.

"I'm not sure," Dean admitted. "Sam's really upset and wants to see us."

He got to his feet, wavering slightly as dizziness hit him, and grabbed his duffel from the end of the bed then made for the door, John on his heels.

Within a minute, the door had snicked closed behind them and they were in the car, powering their way to Sam.

* * *

Though they made good time and got to Oregon by early evening, they didn't meet straight away. Dean dialed Sam's number when they arrived, but the phone was answered by Jessica who said Sam was sleeping already as, to use her words, he had exhausted himself. That ominous statement worried Dean and John, but with nothing to do, no way to help him until morning, they ate and went to bed, too. The next morning, Jessica called again and they made arrangements to meet at the same park they had last time.

Though they had left as soon as they'd gotten off the phone, Sam and Jessica were already at the park waiting for them. Dean felt a lurch in his stomach at the sight of Sam even at a distance. He was slumped over the table, his head in his hands with Jessica's hand on the back of his neck.

As they approached, Sam realized they were there and his head snapped up. Dean became even more concerned. Sam's eyes were ringed with dark shadows and his skin was pale. He looked like he'd dropped weight, too. As they reached him, though, he forced a smile.

Dean wanted to say something about the way he looked, but he thought that would be crossing a line of some sort. He satisfied himself with a concerned look at Jessica who nodded. She didn't look that good either. She was pale and worried looking.

"Hello, Sam," John said.

"Hey," Sam said quietly. "Thanks for coming."

"We will always come if you need us," John said.

"Thank you," Sam said. He glanced at Dean. "What happened to your face?"

Dean fingers came to the corner of his bruised eye and he smiled slightly. "Ghost wasn't happy about being taken out so it threw a dinner service at me."

"Ghosts are real?" Sam asked.

"Afraid so," John said.

Sam nodded and a small smile that looked genuine this time curved his lips.

"You want drinks?" Jessica asked, half getting to her feet.

"We'll get them," Dean said. "Water, Sam?"

He shook his head. "Coffee please."

Dean looked pointedly at John and walked to the café, John at his side. When they were inside and out of earshot, John fixed his eyes on Dean. "Did you see? He's a wreck. Still."

"He's grieving, Dad," Dean said. "Just because he wants us here, it doesn't mean that's passed. It's only been a couple weeks. He's still hurting."

"But look at him!" John hissed. "He looks sick."

Now they were at the crux of what Dean wanted to talk to John about. Even at his worst, John had been hyperaware of danger to Dean. Though there was no outside threat to Sam anymore, he was apparently in danger still; he wasn't taking care of himself. Dean was worried that would translate into worry for John and possibly an attempted conversation that Sam wouldn't accept from them, if he would from anyone at all.

"He does," Dean agreed. "But we can't say anything. It's not our place. It's Jessica that needs to have that conversation with him if she hasn't already. He's called us and asked us to come, which means he has something he needs from us. We're here to give that to him, not lecture him. Okay?"

"I'm not stupid, Dean," John said testily. "I won't risk ruining what he's giving us."

"Okay. Sorry. I had to say it, though, for myself as much as you."

John nodded, still looking a little annoyed, and moved to the counter to place their order. "Four Americanos, please." The barista started preparing their drinks and John turned back to Dean. "I know what kind of man I have been the past eighteen years, but I am not that man anymore, Son. I'm not going to mess this up."

"I know, Dad. I'm sorry."

As he always did, John shook off the apology.

When they got outside with their drinks, Sam was staring out over the lake and Jessica was watching him. They both turned to receive their drinks, though, and Jessica smiled while Sam thanked them quietly.

Silence fell between them for a while as Jessica doctored her coffee and Dean, Sam and John sipped theirs black. Dean wanted to break it, but he was unsure of what to say. Having spent weeks waiting for this meeting, he was now nervous of what it would entail.

Then, Sam cleared his throat and attention shifted to him. "I'm sorry I asked you to leave," he said.

"It's okay," Dean said quickly. "We understood. You needed time and space. We're just grateful you've called now."

Sam smiled slightly again; it was a pained and bitter thing.

"Why did you call us back now?" John asked. "Are you okay?"

Sam looked him in the eye. "No, I'm not, but I think I will be." He drew a deep breath. "I called you back because I realized I was wrong, and I needed you to know, too."

His hands resting flat on the table fisted. Jessica uncurled his right fist and held it in her hand. "It's okay, baby," she said softly. "Just tell them."

Dean was concerned. Sam looked awful and he was obviously still not coping well, but he began to worry now that Sam's appearance was more than just grief. What if he _was_ sick?

"I found James' journals," he said. "And they told me some stuff."

John glanced at Dean, his eyebrow raised in question. Dean had noticed it, too. Sam had called him James, not his father. Was that a sign of him separating himself from the Shtriga?

"The first journal was from 1841, but I don't think he was that young when he started it. I have no idea how old he really was."

Dean could have told him that the Shtriga was possibly thousands of years old. They were reported as folklore for millennia. Sam didn't need to know that though, he was obviously struggling with the idea of the century and a half he knew about.

"What was in the journals?" John asked.

"So much," Sam said. "But what matters is Richard. He was a child James knew in the 1840s." He glanced at Jessica who nodded and picked up her purse. She took out a small framed picture and handed it across the table. At first Dean thought it was a Sam in a strange, dated outfit. They did things like that at tourist attractions—dressed people as cowboys and hookers and sold photos. It seemed a little twisted that the Shtriga would want Sam to look like a child of his past, but this was a creature that fed from children. There really wasn't a limit to the twistedness.

Then he looked closer and saw the age of the picture. It wasn't a carefully staged and altered photograph; it was an actual portrait. "But that's…" he started.

"Not me," Sam said bitterly.

"It looks just like you though," John said.

"But it's not. It's a child he knew and loved all those years ago. Richard. That's why he took me, you see." He looked John in the eye. "He came to feed that night, to teach you a lesson for hunting him. But when he saw me, he took me instead because I looked like this child."

"So much like him," Dean said.

Sam nodded.

"That's not all you found though," John guessed. "There's more."

"Yes," Sam said. "There's the feeding." He sighed. "I separated the Shtriga and James in my head and heart, thinking they were different people. I thought the Shtriga was a kind of curse James lived with all those years. I thought he beat him down and refused to feed because he was a good person really, he said as much that night, but I was wrong." His tone was angry, though where the anger was directed, Dean didn't know.

"Yes," John said. "The Shtriga and man are one and the same. He probably didn't resist really; he just wasn't hungry enough to feed yet."

"That's what I figured," Sam said. "It's more than that though. He wasn't the _man_ I thought either." He looked at John again. "He saw you again, in Chicago, in the mid-nineties, and he saw what a mess you were, and he was happy."

John's hands balled into fists. "He was happy!"

"Yes," Sam said apologetically. "It was all about that hunt. He called it a success."

"So, it was my fault," John said. "I always knew it was because of my neglect, but it was because of the hunt too."

"No," Sam said quickly. "That's what I'm trying to say. It wasn't your fault or Dean's. It was just chance that I looked like Richard. If Dean had been in the room that night, James would have killed him and still taken me, I'm sure. If he had spotted me on the street, he would have taken me then. The curse was my face. Nothing would have stopped him taking me when he saw me. It was _no one's_ fault but his. Understand?"

For the first time in eighteen years, Dean thought he did understand. Many people had told him over the years that he wasn't at fault, but it had taken Sam himself to make him believe. If he had been there that night, he wouldn't have been able to save Sam anymore than John could have. They couldn't have killed the Shtriga unless it was in the act of feeding, and that night it had stolen, not fed. He could only have died.

It felt as if a weight was lifting from him. He could breathe at last. "Sam…" he started, trying to put into words his gratitude, but Sam was already speaking, seeming to force the words out.

"I think I know why I don't remember, too. James told me you both died. I think, being so young, that was enough to make me give up on being found and therefore accept my new life."

"That bastard," John hissed.

Sam nodded. "Yes. He was." He sighed. "I never doubted James' love for me, and I always loved him, but I see now the man I loved didn't really exist. Even though in his own way he did love me, too, he was a monster all along, and not just because he was a Shtriga. Love doesn't excuse what he did to me."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said. "This has to be some kind of nightmare for you."

"It is," Sam admitted. "But there were worse nightmares before, I think, even though I don't remember them."

Dean frowned. What other horrors were there in Sam's life that they didn't know about already?

"In the journals it said I cried for you both for weeks," Sam said apologetically. "And even a year after I was taken, I would call out for you in my dreams. I don't remember that. I don't remember you. And I'm sorry for that. I wish more than anything I did, because I know now I really loved you both once, and that was stolen from me like I was stolen from you."

Dean looked away and wiped at his face. He had known of course that Sam didn't love them now, as he didn't know them, but to hear it spoken felt like a knife to the gut. The Shtriga had taken that from them all. The swift, merciful death they'd given it seemed pathetic now. They should have made it last. They should have made it suffer the way they had. The only comfort they had now was that James had been wrong when he told them Sam belonged to him always. He had nothing of him now that Sam knew the truth.

"I'd really like to have that back," Sam went on. "I can't promise it will be easy, that I will be what you need me to be, but I really would like to try to take back what was stolen from us."

John smiled widely. It was like seeing the sun in its brightness. "I would, we would both, really like that, Sam."

"Yes!" Dean said. "We really would. And don't worry about it being easy. Neither of us expects to just slip back into what we had. It's worth it though. It's all we've wanted since we found you again."

* * *

 **So… We're finally here. I know it's taken a while to get here, but it's the only way the story would allow itself to be told.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	23. Chapter 22

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for the wonderful beta job and Gredelina1 for helping me hammer out the details. Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and supporting.**

 **There's one more chapter after this, and then Part Two will start posting.**

 **Early update this weekend because it's Black Friday and I have no self control. Also, I need the love.**

* * *

 _ **Twenty-Two**_

Sam heard the car doors slamming below the window and knew their time was up. He held Jessica to him a moment longer, though, drawing in breaths of her perfume and the scent of her shampoo as if it would sustain him, before letting her go.

"I can stay," Jessica ventured, as Sam had known she would.

"I know, but you shouldn't. Your family needs to see you, and you need to see them."

"Come with me?" she offered.

Sam smiled ruefully. "Not this time."

It wasn't that he didn't like Jessica's family. He was actually very fond of them, her boisterous brothers included, but he didn't want to be around that many people right now and have to deal with their sympathy for his loss, especially when it didn't feel like a loss the way it should anymore. Besides, he didn't want to spend time playing the grieving son when he could maybe be with Dean and John.

"I'll see you in a couple weeks then," she said.

"Yes." Sam kissed her again and then picked up her bag from the end of the bed and carried it out of the door. They were on the stairs when someone leaned on the horn in the SUV and Brady called their names. "Daylight's wasting, guys."

Sam went outside and flipped him the bird, making Brady laugh raucously. He went to the trunk and loaded Jessica's bag inside with the others already there. As he closed it and turned away, he found Becky standing right in front of him. She put her arms around him and squeezed hard. "You take care, Sam," she said. "Be kind to yourself."

"I will," Sam promised. "And you guys do the same. Drive safe."

"Don't worry," Brady said, slapping his back. "I'll get them there safe, no worries."

Zach came around the car to shake his hand and say, "I'll take care of them _all_ , Sam, don't worry."

Sam smiled and nodded, "Thank, guys, for everything."

Sam hugged Jessica one last time, holding her tightly against him, then he watched her climb into the backseat beside Becky and close the door. He stepped back and patted the hood as Brady brought the engine to life and made the circuit of the driveway and drove toward the road.

He stayed until the car had driven out of sight and then he went back into the house. After weeks spent sharing it with four other people, it felt strangely quiet now. It reminded Sam of coming home from school to an empty house as a child, the solitude and loneliness of making meals for himself and packing one away in the refrigerator for James to eat when he eventually made it home on the days he was working late.

It gave him a strange pang to think of those times when everything had been simple and free. Everything was different now. He wouldn't be returning. He had cleared the house of all the things he didn't want to sell as contents, donating most of it to Goodwill, and the rest was packed in his car to be taken back to California. James' car had been sold and the paperwork for the house had been organized, too. Once Sam left, it would be placed on the market and the sale would be handled by Ted Brattigan, James' former and now Sam's financial adviser.

Sam was saying goodbye to Oregon and the lake, James and his past, for the last time.

There was one thing left for him to do though. He went back into the house and picked up the trunk of journals he'd brought down from the attic. Struggling under their weight a little, he carried them through the house and out into backyard.

There was a patio area set up a little behind the house, with a fire pit they lit on cooler nights to enjoy. Sam opened the trunk and took the journals out in handfuls, dropping them into the fire pit. When the trunk was empty, he doused them in lighter fluid and dropped a match on them. Flames spread across the old paper and Sam stepped back. The fire ate the pages quickly, and soon all there was to see was charred covers. Sam sat down on one of the Adirondack chairs and watched the fire burn.

When it had died down to embers, Sam nodded once, said, "Goodbye, James," and then stood and walked into the house. He had said his last farewell to the man he had been now, and he was free both physically and emotionally to move on with Dean and John again.

* * *

Sam was nervous. He'd been back in California a couple days when he'd received a call from John asking if they could meet again. Emboldened by his farewells in Oregon, Sam had invited them both to come to the apartment. It was a small thing, and Dean had already been there twice, but that had been before Sam had known who he really was. Now he was opening his home to them both as family. John would have a chance to look at his photographs, see the books he read, look at the life he lived. Sam was worried he'd be disappointed by what he found.

In preparation for their visit, he had been to the store and bought steaks for dinner. He remembered that they ate most of their meals on the road, and he thought it would be different for them to have a home-cooked meal to hopefully enjoy.

Now the potatoes were baking in the oven and Sam was picking up around the lounge for the third time. He was moving photographs, only to replace them again. All images of James had been removed within an hour of Sam returning to the apartment, but now he deliberated over photographs of himself as a child that Jessica had plucked from albums and framed. Would they want to see them or would it upset them? He was holding a picture of himself at aged thirteen from summer camp, rowing a kayak and grinning up at the camera, when there was a knock on the door. He dropped the picture down on the coffee table and rushed to answer.

Dean stood on the threshold and John a little back from him. As soon as Sam saw them he realized that they, John especially, were just as nervous about this meeting as he was. It was the first time the three of them would be alone, without Jessica's calming and comforting presence. Their nerves seemed to alleviate some of his own.

"Hey," he said brightly, stepping back to allow them entry. They came in and hesitated in the hall. Smiling internally, Sam led them to the lounge and said, "Take a seat. Coffee? Beer?"

"Beer would be great," Dean said and John nodded.

Sam went into the kitchen, checked on the potatoes and took three beers from the fridge. He carried them through to the lounge and handed them to John and Dean where they sat side by side on the couch and then unscrewed the cap of his own. He took a draw on the bottle and sat in anarmchair.

"So, how've you been?" he asked. "Hunted anything?"

"Nope," Dean said. "We've been pretty quiet lately."

"Is that usual?" Sam asked. "I mean, are there always hunts to do or do you get to relax sometimes?"

"It's usually pretty steady, actually," John said. "We can usually snag a hunt a week or so, depending on how long we need to take care of them. It's easier now that the…" He trailed off, looking stricken.

"Now that the Shtriga is dead?" Sam asked. "It's okay. You don't need to walk on eggshells. I understand what it means for you." It had been the focus of eighteen years of hunting for them. Of course things were different now it was dead.

Dean cast his father a sideways glance and then picked up the framed photograph from the table. "This is you," he said.

"Yeah. Camp Chitaqua, 96. First time I ever got in a boat."

"Looks like you enjoyed it," John said, looked down at the picture with an almost wistful expression on his face.

"Loved it," Sam said. "I love the water."

Dean smiled slightly. "I remember. You were a nut for it even at four."

"I was?" Sam asked.

John grinned. "Yeah," he said. "Dean taught you to swim that summer and you were so excited about it. You were going to show me the day you fell and cut up your arm and back. We had the hardest time after, making you understand you couldn't go in the pool with your arm all bandaged."

Sam ran a hand up the line of the scar on his arm. It felt strange to hear about the real injury behind it rather than the story James had told him.

"I don't remember," he said sadly.

John leaned forward. "That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you. How serious are you about the missing memories? Would you want them back if you could have them?"

"Yes," Sam said instantly. He wished more than almost anything that he could remember John and Dean from before. It felt like the missing memories were a block between knowing them now, too. They had years of him and he had nothing of them.

"Then there may be a way," John said.

Sam eyes widened. "Yeah?"

"We have a friend called Missouri," Dean said. "She has… abilities. Dad spoke to her, and she thinks she might be able to help you out, with the memories, I mean."

Sam leaned forward, excitement rushing through him. "Wow. That'd be incredible."

"Yeah? Awesome," Dean said. "She's in Kansas. You think you'll be free to make a trip to see her?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll check flights," Sam said, half rising.

John smiled as Dean began to shift uncomfortably.

"What's up?" Sam asked.

"We'll need to drive," Dean said quietly.

"Why?" Sam asked. "It'll take days."

"The weapons," Dean said. "We can't take them on a plane, can we?"

"Yeah, because we'll need to be armed to see _Missouri_ ," John said, with a laugh.

Sam realized it was the first time he'd heard John really laugh, at least that he could remember. It was a good, throaty sound, and it made his whole face change,

"Okay, fine," Dean said testily. "I don't like flying. That's why I want to drive. But if you two want to take a flight, I'll meet you there, okay?"

"It's okay," Sam said. "We can drive. I don't mind."

Dean looked at him gratefully."Thanks, Sam."

"No problem," Sam said. "Now, who's hungry? I have steak."

Dean's eyes lit up and Sam grinned. "That's one yes. How about you, John?"

"I'd really like that," John said with a smile.

"Great," Sam said. "I'll get to it."

* * *

Sam was moving around the apartment, grabbing the stuff he'd need for their trip to Kansas, when his phone rang on the table. He smiled as he checked the caller ID and answered with a happy sigh. "Jess."

"Hey, baby," she said gently. "How are you doing?"

"Good," Sam said honestly, sitting down and kicking back with his feet on the table. "I'm really good."

"You are?" She sounded surprised.

"Yeah, I am. Dean and John came by last night for dinner, and today we're heading out on a trip to Kansas to meet a friend of theirs that might be able to help me get some of my memories back."

"Wow," Jessica said. "That all sounds great, but are you sure you're ready for something like that?"

"More than ready. I need the memories back, Jess. It's making me crazy to be in the dark about those years."

"Yeah, that's a concern, too, but I was thinking about how you'd feel spending all that time together. It's not like you can just walk away if you're on a plane and you get uncomfortable."

Sam rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "Actually, there's no plane. It's a road trip. Apparently Dean has issues with flying. And I think it'll be okay. Last night went great."

"I'm happy for you, Sam," she said. "Really."

"But…?" Sam prompted.

"But I am worried you're doing too much, too soon. What if you can't handle it? You've been through so much lately."

"Exactly," Sam said. "I've been through plenty worse than a road trip with two good people. Worst case, I can't handle it and I catch a bus home. Best case, I get something more than memories back." He hesitated. "They're my family, Jess. At some point I have to let go of the safety rail and let them be that."

"Wow," she said again, sounding stunned. "That's… I mean that's big, Sam. I'm really happy that you're feeling that strong. And you're right, they are your family. They're good people. They'll take care of you."

That was one thing that wasn't in question in Sam's mind. He was only now building a family with Dean and John, but he was already theirs. He had been all his life, even when he hadn't been with them.

"I know," he said confidently. "It's going to be fine, Jess."

"Yeah," she said. "It is."

"So, how's everything back home?" Sam asked.

"It's good. Everyone sends their love. They're sorry you couldn't be here, but they understand."

Sam leaned his head against the couch back and listened as Jessica told him the story of her eldest brother preparing to propose and her younger sister's first year at college. He closed his eyes and just enjoyed the sound of her voice and the tales of her family.

That was what it was all about, he thought, family.

* * *

Dean was uncharacteristically nervous the morning they picked up Sam from his apartment to set out for Kansas. He'd been so relieved that he wouldn't have to fly the night before, that he hadn't taken into consideration the fact that they would all be spending the next few days cooped up in a car together instead.

So far all their meetings with Sam had been carefully staged, with space and always an out if one of them couldn't handle it. There would be no chance of while that traveling to Missouri's. He was pleased at the idea of spending that much time with Sam, but he didn't want to mess it up. Even for people without the emotional baggage they had, a road trip like this could be tough. John and Dean had it down to a fine art. They could go for hours without talking if they didn't feel like it, and they could read each other's mood to know when that was. Neither of them had that awareness of Sam anymore, and they hadn't ridden with him since he was a kid.

It turned out, though, that riding with Sam as an adult was a lot like riding with him as a kid. He fidgeted on the back seat and required restroom breaks far more often than John and Dean.

It amused John no end, and he pulled into each rest stop with an air of indulgent patience and a secret smile. Enforcing the idea of Sam's lack of change was the fact that when John tuned the radio to a soft rock station, Sam fell asleep within a minute of Kansas' Dust in the Wind starting. Sammy had always been powerless in the face of soft rock.

They were on the outskirts of Grand Island when Sam requested yet another restroom break.

"Dude, how small is your bladder?" Dean asked without thinking.

There was a moment of silence and John shot him a sharp look. Dean immediately wished he could take back the words, but then Sam burst into laughter, great belly laughs that rocked him. He curled over, and hugged his arms around his stomach as he roared. Dean and John exchanged a stunned look and then John snorted. Before long, the three of them were lost to mirth, their laughter feeding each other's.

Slowly, Sam calmed slightly and said, "Just because I'm not a camel like you two."

Dean turned to look over the seat and saw that Sam's eyes were bright with amusement and his smile was wide. He laughed again.

"There's a rest stop ahead," John told Sam.

"Thanks," Sam said.

Smiling fit to bust, John turned on his blinker and pulled them into the parking lot of a small rest stop. They came to a halt and Sam climbed out, making straight for the building.

"I can't believe you said that," John said, his tone amused.

"Me either," Dean admitted. "It just kinda came out. Thank God he took it okay."

"Of course he did," John said. "Sam's always had a great sense of humor. And did you notice? His laugh is almost exactly the same: it moves his whole body."

"I did," Dean said with a fond smile. "Man, I can't believe this is really happening, that we're really on the road, all together again."

John nodded, his smile stretched across his face. "It feels good. It feels right. And I wonder…"

"Wonder what?" Dean asked, but just then Sam came out of the restroom and walked towards them.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

John nodded, as if coming to a decision. "Yeah, it's all good. I was wondering something. We're close to a bar we know, and I was wondering if you were up for calling it a night now and having something to drink."

"Dad…" Dean started. He knew which bar John was thinking of, and he thought going there was asking too much of Sam.

"Sure," Sam said easily. "Sounds good."

"Really?" Dean asked cautiously. "It's a bar run by some friends of ours."

"You mean they know me?" Sam asked, and then he shrugged. "That's okay. Just as long as they're not expecting me to know them, too."

"They won't be," John said. "They know the situation. They've helped us a lot over the years and they know the story."

"Okay then," Sam said, opening the car door and climbing in.

Dean shot John a glare—he was sure this was a bad idea—and then climbed into the car, too. Looking unconcerned, even happy, John did the same.

They drove on another thirty minutes before reaching The Roadhouse. John pulled up in the lot between a crapped out Mustang and Kubrick's RV. They got out and Sam hung back as John made for the door.

"You sure you're good for this?" Dean asked.

"What? Oh, yeah," Sam said quickly. "No problem."

John looked back at them and then pushed the door open and went inside. Sam seemed to steel himself before following him. Dean drew a deep breath, sent up a prayer that this wouldn't backfire on them, and went in.

The tables were reasonably busy, and there were a few people at the bar, waiting for their drinks with bills in hand. Sam looked around slowly, taking it all in. His eyes bugged and he stopped abruptly. Dean almost walked into him. He glanced at Sam and said, "You okay, man?"

Sam nodded and then spoke in a whisper. "There are a lot of weapons in here."

Dean hadn't considered that aspect of their visit. He looked around, trying to see the place as Sam was. At one table, three hunters were cleaning their guns, and at another Gordon Walker was running a whetstone over the blade of his machete. Even the people that didn't have weapons sitting out in the open had guns bulging jacket pockets and tucked in pants. No wonder Sam was spooked.

"It's a hunters' bar," he explained. "People in the life come here to share information and regroup. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "It was just a surprise, is all."

"Shall we sit?" John asked, and Sam nodded.

"I'll get the drinks," Dean said.

John led Sam over to a table in the corner where they took seats side by side and Dean walked over to the bar and came to stand beside Ash who was leaning heavily on the counter. Dean rooted for his wallet while he waited for Ellen to see him, and nudged Ash with his elbow. "Hey, Mensa," he said cheerfully.

Ash looked at him blearily. "Hey, Dean. How's it going?"

"Good," Dean said with a wide smile. "Real good."

Ellen caught sight of him, and she smiled slightly and nodded to him as she exchanged a bottle of beer for a bill from Kubrick. When she had stowed the money in the register and handed over his change, she moved along the bar to him and greeted him. "Hey, honey. What can I get you?"

"Three beers, please," Dean said.

"Three?" she looked around the room, her eyes coming to rest on John and Sam who were talking animatedly. "Who…? Dean! That's…"

"Sam," Dean said proudly. "Yep."

"When?" Ellen asked breathlessly.

"Fairly recently," Dean admitted. "We're going to Lawrence to see Missouri."

Ellen nodded, her lips parted with shock and her eyes fixed on Sam and John. "Damn, he got big," she said.

"Tell me about it," Dean said with a laugh.

Ellen dragged her eyes from Sam and said, "What's he like?"

Dean grinned. "He's awesome. Seriously, his heart is bigger than Texas and he's smart as a whip. It's like some kind of dream, having him back."

"I'll bet," Ellen said. "Let's get you your drinks and you can get back to him again." She bent to the fridge and pulled out three bottles of beer and set them on the counter. Dean opened his wallet but she shook her head briskly. "These are on me and Bill."

"Thanks, Ellen," Dean said, turning to return to John and Sam. Sam was coming towards him, though, tentative smile in place. Dean looked past him and saw Daniel Elkins plunking himself down at their table with John. John looked annoyed but he was nodding to something Elkins was saying.

"Hey," Dean said. "You okay?"

Sam nodded quickly. "Yeah. Your Dad's friend seemed to need to talk to him pretty desperately, and I figured it was better that I leave them to it." His eyes moved past Dean to Ellen who was watching him with wide and stunned eyes. "Uh, hi?" he said.

"Sorry," Dean said. "Sam, this is Ellen Harvelle. She and her husband Bill are like family. And this is Ash," he said gesturing to the man who was watching Sam through bleary eyes. "Ash is actually a big part of the reason we got you back when the vampires took you. He's a genius at hacking traffic cameras."

"Wow. Thanks," Sam said, extending a hand.

Ash shook it and drawled, "No worries, man. Glad you're okay."

Bill came in then, a crate of beer in his arms. He set it down and approached the small group, a welcoming smile on his face as he said, "Dean, good to see you. You bring your dad with you?"

"Yeah, he's with Elkins," Dean said, nodding toward their table.

Bill nodded and turned his eyes to Sam. "And… Oh…"

"This is Sam," Dean said, casting Sam a sideways glance to see how he was handling Bill's obvious shock and recognition. He was a little tense around the eyes, but he was smiling and it looked genuine.

"Good to see you, Sam," Bill said, extending a hand to him. As he did, his open collar shirt parted to show the large mottled scar beneath. Sam's eyes bugged as he caught sight of it.

"Quite something, isn't it?" Bill said, nodding.

Sam blushed and cast his eyes down. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Bill said understandingly.

"Tell him the story," Ellen instructed.

Bill exchanged a glance with Dean who nodded. It was a good story for Sam to hear.

"I was on a hunt with John," Bill said. "Years back. We were after this Hell spawn I can't even begin to describe to you. I was the bait and John was lying in wait. We messed up though. The salt line was broken, and the thing got out and at me." He ran a hand across his stomach where Dean knew there were other, larger scars still. "It got a good swipe across me, leaving a bunch of my insides on the outside. So there I am, dying, and then John is there. He gets me off the ground and into the car, and he drives me to the hospital with one hand on the wheel and the others holding my guts inside." He glanced across the room at John who was nodding to something as Elkins stood and left the table. "That man there saved my life, when I was begging him to put me out of my misery."

"Thank God," Ellen said, laying her hand on Bill's chest.

Bill kissed her hair and nodded. "Man's a damn hero."

Sam eyes drifted to John who looked back quizzically. Dean picked up the beers and nudged Sam's elbow. "Shall we sit?"

"Yeah," Sam said, following him back to the table and taking his seat beside John again.

"What was that about?" John asked.

"Just sharing some hunting stories," Dean said casually, handing out the beers.

John glanced between him and Sam then back at Bill and said, "Don't believe everything they tell you, Sam. They exaggerate."

Sam smiled, "I'll keep that in mind." But when John looked away, Sam looked at him with something like awe.

Dean was pleased to see it. Despite his reticence, John was a hero, and Dean was glad Sam knew it.

* * *

 **So… What do you think? It was great to finally be able to write some good times between Sam, Dean and John. Also, Bill lives! That makes me crazy happy.**

 **I have a new story on the way. It's a S13 AU diverting from canon at the end of Episode 3: Patience. I'm not sure when I will be able to post, but if you're looking for a teaser/hint of what's to come, check out my new profile picture and then lay your guesses on me of what's going to happen. I can't wait to hear what you're thinking.**

 **Until next time…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


	24. Chapter 23

**Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing, encouraging, and letting me eat your time with my many mistakes. Thank you Gredelina1 for being my sounding board and the first person to hear these chapters. Thank you all for sharing this journey with me. You support means to much to me. It keeps me going when the words don't flow.**

* * *

 _ **Chapter Twenty-Three**_

Despite his eagerness to rediscover some of his missing memories, Sam was nervous as they drove into Lawrence. The feeling was apparently shared by John and Dean, as they exchanged dark glances and John's fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel.

They drove through the streets, coming to a stop outside a neat house with painted trim and a well-tended garden. Dean and John climbed out, but Sam hesitated before following. The weight of what was about to happen had settled over him and made him nervous. He wished Jessica was there. She would know what to say and do to reassure him.

Dean peered through the window at him, his brow creased with concern. "You okay?"

Sam realized he must look ridiculous, cowering in the car, so he opened the door and climbed out. "I'm fine," he reassured Dean.

Dean looked like he wanted to say something, but the door to the house flew open then and a woman stepped onto the porch. She was dark-skinned, and stout, with a scarf holding her hair back. As she came closer though, walking down the path to them, Sam saw her eyes were kind and her smile wide.

"Well, look at you," she said, her eyes fixed on Sam. "Didn't you grow up tall. And handsome as anyone." She almost looked like she wanted to pinch his cheek. She laughed and turned away to greet John and Dean. "John Winchester, good to see you again, and, Dean… Well now, you're welcome."

Sam frowned and looked from her to Dean with a creased brow.

"Missouri is a psychic," Dean explained. "She can speak with spirits and read energies, but she can also… read your mind," he finished quietly.

"Seriously?" Sam blurted.

Missouri laughed again. "Yes."

Sam's hands curled into nervous fists. He wasn't sure how comfortable he was being around a mind reader. He wasn't hiding anything exactly, but that didn't mean he wanted his mind rooted through.

"I don't share what I hear, though," she said airily. "And I don't judge."

Sam realized she was responding to his thoughts and he fought back a wince. Her words had been reassuring, but the action behind them wasn't so much. Again, Sam wished Jessica was there. She wasn't though, and the only options available to Sam were to suck it up and go into that house with a mind reader or lose the chance to regain some of what he had lost.

"Shall we go in?" she asked, and then turned and trotted up the path and steps into the house without waiting for an answer.

John followed her but Dean hung back. "Are you okay with this?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," Sam said with forced cheer. "I'll be fine."

"Missouri's a little out there, but she's a good person. She meant what she said: she doesn't share and she doesn't judge. She's heard all kinds of things from me, but never told anyone."

Sam wondered what those things were, but he didn't ask. Dean had as much a right to privacy as he did.

They walked along the path and up the steps into the house. It was a little dim inside, and despite the size of the room, the living room felt claustrophobic with its heavy drapes and dark furniture.

"Let's get some light in here," Missouri said, drawing back the drapes and flicking on wall sconce light fittings. "I have to create the atmosphere for my work," she explained. "People want to feel like they're getting their money's worth from me."

"What do you do?" Sam asked, taking a seat on the couch beside John. Dean took his other side, bracketing him in.

Missouri raised an eyebrow at John. "Did you tell him anything about me at all?"

"I told her you might be able to help," John said.

She shook her head. "John Winchester, you were born with a steel trap, not a mouth. No wonder the poor boy's having trouble." She turned to Sam. "I read palms and energies. I consult the talking board and commune with spirits. Basically, I provide woo-woo to the good people of Lawrence."

Sam smiled in spite of himself. Jessica would get a kick out of this setup. She had always been a little out there in her beliefs. Though, he supposed it wasn't 'out there' when it was now being proven as real. He couldn't wait to tell her.

Missouri beamed at him. "Now, Sam, we need to talk about what we're going to do," she said. "My idea is to try hypnotizing you, to see if we can dig up some of those memories."

Sam nodded. "Okay."

"You need to be aware, though, that doing this may not just bring up good memories. They don't come with labels, and when I pull a thread, there's no knowing what's going to unravel and rise to the surface."

"I understand," Sam said. "I need to try, though. I have to get at least some of it back."

She surveyed him speculatively. "Why?"

Sam wished she had asked the question when he was alone, without John and Dean listening attentively at his sides. He decided to answer honestly though, as she would know if he was lying. "I am missing part of myself," he said. "If James had been my dad, it wouldn't have mattered that I couldn't remember those years, because I had a lifetime of other memories. He wasn't though. He was the thing that stole me. They, Dean and John, have these memories of me, and I have nothing of them. I feel like I am only partway there all the time. I don't want to start anew with them. I want to build on what we already had. I can't do that until I remember them properly."

John started to speak, but Missouri held up a hand, effectively silencing him. Her lips pressed together contemplatively for a moment and then she said. "But what about negative memories of the other man? He took you, and if you remember that, it might scare you. It might ruin the good memories you have of him now."

Sam thought of the diaries. "They've already been spoiled. The man I thought was my father, the man I loved, didn't exist. It was all a pretense he put on for the world. He was a Shtriga all along."

Dean shifted at his side, his shoulder brushing against Sam's. Sam took comfort in it. He was there, John was, too; they would help him through this.

"Okay then," Missouri said. "In that case, let's get to work. Would you rather we did this alone?"

Sam heard a sharp breath being sucked in on his right, and he knew John was unwilling to leave. He may have been more comfortable alone, but they deserved to be there with him. This was as much about them as it was Sam.

"I'd like them to stay," he said.

Missouri nodded. "John, Dean, you're going to need to park your butts somewhere else. Sam needs to get comfortable."

They both stood and moved to sit on the other smaller couch.

"Do I need to lie down or something?" Sam asked.

Missouri smiled. "Not unless you want to. You just need to make yourself comfortable."

Sam shifted and leaned back against the couch cushions.

"Close your eyes," she instructed.

Feeling a little self-conscious, Sam did as she bid and tried to even out his breathing.

"That's right, nice deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth," she encouraged.

Sam felt himself relaxing deeper as he drew slow breaths. His muscles became loose and his heart slowed.

"Well done," she praised. "Now, Sam, I am going to count down from five, and when I reach zero, you're going to be in a state of deep hypnosis. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Sam said, his voice sounding distant to his ears.

"Five… Four… Three… Two… One… Zero. Can you hear me, Sam?"

"I can hear you."

"I want you to go back, before college, before James, go back all the way to when you were very young. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Sam said dully.

"What do you see, Sam?"

"Dean," Sam said, his voice calm, happy. "I see Dean."

"What's Dean doing?"

Sam smiled again. "He's putting on his shoes… We're going swimming…"

* * *

Sam was excited. This was the big day, the biggest day. Today he was going to show his dad how good he'd gotten at swimming.

Dean had been teaching him, and even Dean, who was the best swimmer there was, said he was really good now. He'd been practicing forever, and it was hard to do. He'd been scared at first, not wanting to take his feet off the bottom, but when he'd seen Dean splashing up and down whole pool, he'd known he had to learn, too. Dean said he could do it, so he tried.

It was scary, letting the water hold you up instead of your feet, and sometimes he couldn't stay up. He would sink under and the water would get in his mouth and up his nose. It was gross. But Dean came and saved him. He held Sam's hands and pulled him along until Sam knew just what to do to float. Once he could float, it got easier. He could move in the water, splashing his arms and legs and going up and down. Dean said he was the fastest learner he had ever seen, but Sam knew that was because he had such a good teacher. Dean could teach anyone to be the best at anything because he was so clever.

And now Dad was home. He was going to come see Sam swim as soon as he finished his work stuff. Sam wanted to be ready, to practice a little more, so they were going to swim now. But first Sam had to wait until Dean had his shoes on.

Dean didn't tie his laces, and that wasn't fair because he always made Sam tie his, but it didn't matter because they were going swimming. "Okay," Dean said. "Let's go."

Sam tried to open the door, but it was fiddly and heavy. Dean smiled as he pushed Sam's hand out of the way and opened it. Sam couldn't wait till he was big like Dean so he could do that stuff on his own. But then the door was open and Sam was running out. He passed the doors and ran through the hole that led to the pool. The smell of the water tickled his nose but he didn't mind. He liked the smell as it meant swimming.

Sam kicked his shoes off and ran to the steps that took him into the water, but then Dean shouted, "Hey, Sammy stop a minute."

Sam couldn't stop though. He was going too fast, and he was too excited. He knew Dean would tell him off, but he wouldn't really be mad. He would just be pretending because he was the big brother and that's what they did.

Then he was skidding. His arms spun at his sides as he tried to get his balance back, but he couldn't. He shouted as he fell down. His back scraped the ground hard and it burned, then there was more pain. Something sharp cut his arm, making it bleed. It hurt but Sam didn't cry. He was being brave.

Dean ran towards him, and kneeled down beside him. His hands grabbed the cut on Sam's arm and made it burn.

"It's okay, Sammy, It's okay," he said in a wobbly voice and then he shouted, "Dad!"

Sam looked around and saw his dad appear. He dropped the things in his hands and ran to them, his voice breathy as he said, "Sammy."

He got down beside Sam, moving Dean back, and put the towel around Sam's bleeding arm. It was tight and it hurt, but Sam still didn't cry because his dad was picking him up and then they were running back to their room.

Dean didn't come, but Sam didn't worry because Sam had made a big mess on the ground and in the water, a big red, bloody mess, and Dean was probably cleaning it up. And Sam was with his dad, and his dad was the fastest, strongest man there was, and he was saying, "It's okay, Sammy, you're okay. I've got you." And Sam knew he was okay, because his dad was there and nothing bad could happen now.

* * *

It was one of those special nights when Dad was home at bedtime. Even though he made them go to bed early when Dean let them go late, it was okay because he would tuck Sam in with the special way he had, making him like a caterpillar in the book Dean read him, all squished inside. Sam knew Dean liked it best, too. He was much happier when Dad was there at bedtime.

Sam had brushed his teeth extra slow to make bedtime last, until Dad had called, "You fall asleep in there, Sammy?" Sam had laughed and the toothpaste had gone everywhere. Dean had come in and helped Sam clean up his face with a washcloth, and then he'd dragged him out of the bathroom with one hand, and he was laughing too.

Dad was waiting at the end of Sam's bed, and when Sam got on and bounced his way excitedly to the top, he smiled his special smile that he saved just for Sam and Dean.

"You boys ready to sleep?" he asked.

"Nope," Sam said happily.

"No?" Dad asked with surprise. "That's too bad. If you don't sleep, we can't go anywhere tomorrow, and I had a surprise planned."

"Yeah?"

Dean laughed and Sam thought he must already know what the surprise was. It wasn't fair. Just because he was the oldest.

"Yeah," Dad said. "We were going to see Ellen and Bill and Jo, but if you're going to be too tired, we can't go."

"I won't be too tired," Sam said quickly. "Promise." He loved going to Ellen and Bill's. Bill let him sit on the special high chairs and Ellen gave him juice in a real glass like Dean.

"You'll need to settle down and sleep early if you don't want to fall right off the chair, asleep," Dad warned.

"I will," Sam said. "Right now."

He quickly shuffled down the bed and lay down with his eyes closed. Dad and Dean laughed, and Dean said, "You're not fooling us, Sammy. You have to be really asleep."

Sam opened his eyes and scowled. "I'm trying!"

Dad smiled as he pushed back Sam's hair. "I know you are, kiddo. How about we tuck you in and you fall asleep really?"

"Yeah," Sam said, grinning.

He put his hands down beside him and Dad started tucking the blankets under him, starting at his feet and working his way upwards. When he was wrapped right up, Dad stepped back and moved to Dean's bed. Dean didn't like the caterpillar blankets, but he let Dad pull his up to his chin and tuck them around his arms.

"Right, boys, I've got some stuff to do for work, but I'll be back soon. If you're asleep before I get back, we'll go to see Ellen and Bill, okay?"

"Okay," Sam said, yawning. Now that he was tucked right up, he was tired. His eyes drifted shut and he heard Dad and Dean saying the things they had to always say before Dad went anywhere, the thing about keeping doors locked and calling Pastor Jim, and Sam's favorite part. "Most important, watch out for Sammy."

Sam couldn't wait till he was bigger, then Dad would tell him about locking doors and he'd say, "Watch out for Dean," in that same special, serious voice.

Sam felt sleepiness coming and he snuggled deeper in his blankets. Tomorrow would be special. Dad would take them in the car and they would see Ellen and Bill, and Dean would be happier because Dad was there. It would all be okay.

* * *

It was dark outside and in the room, and Sam woke up breathing hard. He was afraid. He'd had the scary dream of the monster again. He looked at the other bed, but his dad wasn't there. He was working again.

Though he tried really hard not to cry, his face was wet and his eyes stung. Beside him in the big bed, Dean was sleeping with his mouth open. Sam felt better with his brother there, because he knew he would take care of him, but then it occurred to him that Dean could only watch out for him if he was awake. The monster could creep out from under the bed and grab Sam, and Dean wouldn't know.

Sam reached over and shook Dean's shoulder. "Dean," he hissed, scared to make too much noise in case it woke the monster up, too. "Dean!"

Dean rolled over and yawned. "What's up, Sammy?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"The bed monster," Sam whispered.

Dean woke up properly then. He sat up and rubbed his eyes then turned on the light next to the bed. "There's nothing there, Sammy, I promise."

"How do you know if you don't look?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed. "Okay. If I look, will you go back to sleep?"

"Yes," Sam promised, crossing his fingers behind his back.

Dean climbed out of the bed. Sam curled into a ball, scared that Dean was going to disappear any minute. Dean bent down and pulled back the sheet covering the bottom of the bed. Sam held his breath as he waited.

"Nothing there," Dean said. "Just dust bunnies, and they can't hurt anyone."

"Promise?" Sam said doubtfully.

"I promise," Dean said. "Do you want to look, too?"

"No!" Sam said, his eyes getting wide enough to sting.

Dean climbed back in the bed and said. "It's okay, Sammy. Just me and you here. No monsters. I swear."

Sam uncurled from his ball and said, "Thank you, Dean."

"No problem," Dean said, mussing his hair. "Now, are you going to be able to go back to sleep now?"

Sam thought for a moment. He felt wide awake now. He'd never be able to fall asleep, even without the monster scaring him. He shook his head.

Dean sighed. "Okay. No sleep. What do you want to do?"

"Stories?" Sam said hopefully.

Dean grinned. "King Arthur?"

Sam nodded eagerly. "Yeah!"

Dean went to his duffel at the end of the bed and pulled out a battered book. He carried it back over to the bed and climbed in beside Sam, sitting close. He opened the book and started to read, _"Many years ago, there was a king called Uther Pendragon…"_

Sam giggled. "That's a funny name."

Dean sighed heavy and lowered the book to his lap. "You always say that, Sammy."

Sam shrugged. "It's always funny."

He looked up and saw that Dean was smiling with his eyes, even though his mouth was a straight line. Sam knew he wasn't really mad, so he didn't worry.

Dean picked up the book again and read aloud for Sam. _"He had fought many times against the Saxons, who wanted to steal his land, and so he had many enemies…"_

Sam leaned against Dean's arm and closed his eyes, listening to the story. Dean really was the best brother. He checked for monsters and he read the best stories. No one had a better brother than Sam.

* * *

Sam was fed up. He wanted to go play in the park, but Dean wouldn't let him. He said it wasn't safe for them, but Sam could see through the window and there were lots of other kids out there and grownups watching. If it was safe for them, why wasn't it safe for Sam and Dean?

But Dean didn't answer him when he asked. He just told Sam to watch his cartoons while he made dinner for them. Sam was hungry and he'd asked for SpaghettiOs but now that he could smell them, he didn't want them.

"Come sit, Sammy," Dean said, turning off the TV.

Sam grumbled as he got up and went to sit at the table. Dean poured him a glass of milk and went back to the stove.

"When's Dad gonna get back?" Sam asked. When Dad got back, they could play in the park all they liked because then it would be safe.

"Tomorrow," Dean said, bringing the pot over to the table.

"When?"

"I dunno," Dean said, pouring the smelly SpaghettiOs into the bowl in front of Sam. "He usually comes in pretty late though. Now, eat your dinner."

"Sam looked at the bowl of orange rings and shook his head. "I'm sick of SpaghettiOs."

Dean looked mad. "Well you're the one who wanted them."

"I want Lucky Charms."

"There's no more Lucky Charms," Dean said. Sam knew he was lying.

"I saw the box," Sam argued, mad that Dean was lying. If he lied, Dean told him off. It wasn't fair that no one was there to tell Dean off.

"Okay, maybe there is, but there's only enough for one bowl, and I haven't had any yet."

Sam just looked at him. Dean stared back for a moment and then he picked up Sam's bowl with an angry huff and dumped it into the trash. He came back and thumped the cereal box down in front of Sam.

Sam grabbed the box, and peered inside. Sitting on top of the pieces of cereal and the colorful marshmallows was the prize Sam had been waiting to get to. Dean wouldn't let him dig for it. He said it made germs. They had to eat it all to get to the prize.

He looked up and saw Dean watching him, his eyebrows low and his eyes sad.

Sam shook the prize out into his hand and held it out to Dean. "D'you want the prize?"

Dean's smiled as he took it. "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam knew he was happy because it was Tygra, and Tygra was the best Thundercat there was.

Dean poured the cereal into a bowl for him and said, "Eat your dinner."

Sam spooned up the cereal and watched Dean turn the toy in his hand, his eyes happy. Sam liked it when Dean was happy better than anything.

* * *

Sam's eyes opened in the dim room and he stared up at the face of the man. He didn't know the man. It wasn't Dad or Bill, or Pastor Jim or Uncle Bobby. It was a stranger, and Sam wasn't supposed to go near strangers. But Sam hadn't gone near him. He had come into Sam's bedroom and leaned over him.

"Dean?" he called, his voice shaky.

"It's okay, Richard," the man said. "You're going to be okay."

"My name's Sam," he said, wishing the man would go away.

The man smiled though, and said, "Well, Sam, I'm going to help you."

"Where's Dean?" Sam's eyes searched the room, but he couldn't see his brother. He was scared.

The man looked around, too, and when he looked back at Sam he was smiling in a creepy way. He pushed away Sam's blanket and picked him up. "Dean doesn't matter now. I'm going to take care of you."

"No!" Sam shouted. Dean mattered. He was Sam's big brother, his best friend, his protector. He was the one Sam had to listen to so he was safe. "Dean! Help me! Dean!"

The man carried him to the window and squeezed them through. The air outside was cold and it was very dark. Sam was really frightened.

He wanted Dean. He wanted Dad. He wanted to wake up and find out this was a scary dream the way the monster under the bed dream was.

Then he heard a voice and knew he was saved. "Sam! No! Sam!"

Dean! Dean was coming. But the man holding him ran fast, making Sam bounce as he carried him away, and he could hear Dean shouting, but he couldn't shout back anymore because he couldn't breathe and he couldn't see Dean now, and he thought maybe Dean wasn't going to be able to save him and he was so scared, and—

"Enough!" a new voice shouted, and Sam knew it so he clung to it, and then there was another voice saying, "One, Two, Three, Four, Five, wake up, Sam," and his eyes opened and he was back…

* * *

Back in Missouri's living room, Sam folded over himself and began to cry. He cursed the tears that dripped into his hands that covered his face, but he could no more control them than he could his own heartbeat.

Someone came to sit beside him, the seat cushion dipped, and an arm wound around his back. "You're okay." It Dean's voice, but for a moment Sam couldn't tell if it was the adult Dean or the child that had been committed to saving him. He wasn't sure if he was still trapped in the horrible nightmare world of memory.

"What the hell did you do to him?" John demanded.

"I know you're upset, John Winchester, so I'll ignore your tone," Missouri said patiently. "And you already know what I did. I warned him I could pull a wrong thread, and I did."

Dean's arm around him tightened and Sam tried to get himself under control. He was upsetting other people now. He drew in a shaky breath, wiped his hands over his face, and straightened. Dean's hand retreated to his side, and Sam cast him a small smile. "Thanks."

"Are you okay?" John asked intensely, his face as strained as it had been the day Sam took a spill by the pool.

"Yeah," Sam said. "It was just a lot, you know?"

"Yes, "John said seriously. "We know."

"Thank you, Missouri," Sam said sincerely. "It really helped."

She looked pleased but still a little concerned. Sam knew it was him she and they all were concerned for, so he cleared his throat and wiped a hand over his face again, removing the last traces of his tears.

The image of James bent over his bed came to him, but he pushed it away forcefully. He didn't want to dwell on that one twisted memory when there were more, better memories.

He smiled genuinely at Dean and then John. "Thank you, too. I understand better now."

They both looked perplexed. Sam wasn't sure how to explain to them what he meant. He had seen through those memories that he'd been blessed for the first four years of his life. He'd had the best brother and father anyone could have asked for. He had loved them so much.

It wasn't a magical Band-Aid. He didn't suddenly love them again the way he had when he was a child, but there was a connection that had been missing before. They were family, he could see that properly now. The years missed between them were meaningless, because they were together again now.

"Dean," John prompted, and Dean cast him a nervous look.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked, concerned.

"Nothing's wrong," John reassured. "Dean just has something to show you."

Looking uncertain, Dean reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out something small. He held it out and placed it in Sam's outstretched hand.

Sam turned it over, his eyes burning with tears again."Is it the same one?" he asked.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I held onto it."

Sam looked down at the plastic Thundercats toy in his hand and a tear slipped past his control and down his cheek. Dean had held onto it. For eighteen years, with their nomadic lifestyle, this piece of Sam had been kept, carried on Dean through what was probably an endless stream of motels and hunts.

Sam smiled. He had never really been completely lost.

* * *

 **So… There we go. They are ready to move onto the next phase as a family.**

 **This story was a labor of love for me. It took a long time and it stretched me more than any other story has so far. The fact you have all supported me as much as you have has made every day it was a struggle worth it. As long as you guys are reading, I'll be sharing what I write.**

 **Part Two will post very soon—just as soon as I come up with a summary ;-) It will be called** _ **Search On,**_ **and I hope you'll follow me there, as there is still so much story to tell and I want to share it with you all.**

 **Until Part Two…**

 **Clowns or Midgets xxx**


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